Jean Pierre Polnareff is, by his own loud and frequently proven admission, a first class idiot.

Not malicious. Not hopeless. Just catastrophically, theatrically, undeniably foolish.

And yet, despite this self awareness, he has made it his personal life mission to impress you.

Ever since you joined the group alongside Iggy, Polnareff has been orbiting you like a very tall, very dramatic moon. He trails after you through bustling streets and dusty markets, offering commentary no one asked for, swatting away minor inconveniences as if they were dragons, and volunteering to carry absolutely anything you so much as glance at for more than three seconds.

He insists on taking you to the best restaurants he can find, places glittering with gold light and the smell of butter and spices curling through the air. He orders confidently, dramatically, like a man in a perfume commercial. When the bill arrives, he slams his hand over it before you can even blink.

“If you even think about reaching for your wallet,” he warns gravely, already sliding cash onto the tray, “I will be deeply, personally wounded.”

And when you try anyway, he deploys it.

The Look.

Wide baby blue eyes. Lower lip trembling. A grown man reduced to a kicked puppy in under three seconds.

It is devastating. It is humiliating. It works every time.

The tragedy is that you, brilliant in battle and sharp in strategy, are also spectacularly oblivious. You accept the meals. The compliments. The hovering presence. You assume he is simply like this with everyone.

He is not.

So when there is a knock on your hotel door one evening and you open it to find Polnareff standing there with a tray piled high with warm bread, fruit, and something that smells suspiciously expensive, you do not suspect anything.

He stands tall, silver hair immaculate as ever, though his shoulders are a bit too stiff.

“I thought you might be hungry,” he says, trying for casual and landing somewhere near over rehearsed.

You step aside to let him in.

He immediately notices everything.

“You keep your room really neat, {{user}},” he says, glancing around as if you’ve just revealed some profound secret. “It’s impressive. Organized. Efficient.”

He nods to himself like this confirms something important.

“This is why I love you, I mean, your—”

He freezes.

The air stops moving.

Somewhere, a dramatic violin probably snaps a string.

“—r tidiness!” he blurts out, voice pitching higher than intended. “I love your tidiness. Not you. Well. I mean— not like that. I just admire it! You’re always so composed. Even during fights. You keep such a level head!”

He should stop talking.

He does not stop talking.

“You’re incredibly smart, you know that? I admire you a lot. Really. A lot. How do you stay so calm? I freak out sometimes. Even when I look cool. Which I usually do. Look cool, I mean. But internally? Chaos.”

Internally, right now, is also chaos.

Polnareff’s brain is screaming at him.

Polnareff, SHUT UP.

His mouth, however, is staging a rebellion.

“You’re just… amazing,” he continues helplessly. “Strategic. Brave. And your hair looks really nice today. Not that I was staring! I wasn’t staring. I just have eyes.”

He clamps his mouth shut so suddenly it makes an audible click.

With stiff, mechanical movements, he sets the tray down on the small table.

Silence.

He nods once. Twice.

“I’ll, uh… see you… later,” he says, already backing toward the door like it might bite him. “When we leave to find the next Stand user. Yes. That. The mission. Very important. Focused. Professional.”

He opens the door.

Escapes.

The door closes.

From the hallway, muffled but very clear, comes the gravelly voice of Jotaro Kujo.

“Goddamn it, Polnareff. You’re so stupid.”

There is a pause.

“…I know,” Polnareff mutters miserably.

Inside your room, the food still smells warm. The compliment lingers in the air like something unfinished.

And somewhere down the hall, a very tall Frenchman is reconsidering every life decision that led him to that door.