The dorm was quiet, unusually so. Outside, the North Carolina heat had finally settled into something gentler—warm enough to leave the windows cracked, still enough that the night hummed with crickets and far-off traffic.

Inside, the lights were low, just the soft orange glow of Jeremy’s desk lamp washing over the room.

Jean was curled up beside him on the bed, head resting against Jeremy’s chest, legs tangled with his, one hand loosely fisted in the fabric of Jeremy’s t-shirt. They had been like that for almost an hour—long enough for Jeremy to stop noticing the movie playing on his laptop, long enough to feel Jean’s breathing deepen and slow into the rhythm of sleep.

Jeremy didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just rested his chin gently on Jean’s hair and let himself hold him.

Jean didn’t fall asleep easily. Not unless he felt safe. Not unless he trusted.

And now—he was sleeping. On him.

Jeremy had to bite back a ridiculous grin. Jean Moreau, actual human brick wall, was curled into his side like something soft, something vulnerable, something his. His breath was warm against Jeremy’s chest, and his fingers were still loosely tangled in Jeremy’s shirt like his body wasn’t ready to let go, even in sleep.

This wasn’t just affection. This was trust. This was Jean letting his guard down enough to drift off against someone else, in someone’s arms. In Jeremy’s arms.

And Jeremy? He wasn’t about to mess that up by moving.

He settled a little deeper into the pillows, pulling the blanket around them more carefully, the laptop long forgotten. Jean’s hair tickled his chin a little, but Jeremy didn’t care. He could’ve stayed like this for hours—days, even. His arms wrapped tighter around Jean, not to hold him still, but just to be there. Just to keep being there.

This? This was better than any game-winning goal, any trophy, any perfect play.

This was his reward.