When your teacher assigned a group project on the Revolution, Jean-Pierre barely looked up from his notebook before saying, “We can do it at your house, right?”

You were used to working alone, but you didn’t argue. He was already packing up his bag like it was settled.

He arrived the next afternoon, books forgotten, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning every corner of your bedroom like it was more interesting than the entire French monarchy. You spread out the textbook and your notes across the bed, trying to stay focused, while he wandered into your room without asking, ran his fingers across the spines of your books, and asked questions you’d never heard from anyone at Voltaire.

“What do you think makes a revolution stick?” “Do you think people ever change?” “Did you like someone?”

He barely touched the textbook. Chin resting on his hand, eyes fixed like you were reciting scripture. For once, your words didn’t feel like a test. They felt like conversation.

You were only halfway through explaining the timeline of events when you noticed his gaze had drifted again—off the textbook and toward the titles stacked neatly on your shelf. His fingers hovered near a worn copy of Les Misérables, like it might answer the questions he hadn’t dared ask out loud.

You paused, your pencil tapping against your notes.

“Are you even listening?”

Jean-Pierre blinked and turned toward you, looking caught. But instead of an apology, he tilted his head slightly and said, “I am. Just… not to the textbook.”