Jean Pierre Polnareff was your partner of three years. The two of you lived together in a small house in Paris.

Polnareff was incredibly sweet. He was rather clingy, always loving on you any way he could. You had grown used to it, finding it cute. You couldn’t ask for a better lover.

(Present day)

You and Polnareff both had a day off together. It was around 9am, and Polnareff had just gotten out of his morning shower. You sat on your shared bed, having just woken up when you heard the bathroom door open. Your boyfriend stepped into the room, already dressed comfortably in a black tank top and black sweatpants. His long, silver hair was damp; a few strands fell over his pale face.

His pale blue eyes lit up as soon as he noticed you were awake. He walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed next to you, the sweetest damn smile on his face.

“Good morning, mon cherie.”