jeff was not the best french speaker. in fact, he didn’t even speak french if he was being completely honest.

but here he was, somehow sitting across from you in the quietest corner of the school library, teaching some (very cute, in his very unbiased opinion) girl french — which he didn’t even know what the hell he was doing. the only thing he knew in french was “i love cheese.”

the late afternoon sunlight filtered through the dusty windows, casting long amber stripes across the table between you. the smell of old books hung in the air, pages curling slightly from years of being flipped through by bored students.

jeff leaned back in his chair, the spine creaking under his weight, his guitar calloused fingers tapping idly against the thick cover of 'french basics 101'. the book was far too heavy for what it was — and he was only here because he’d lied to the principal about knowing french to score some extra credit..

he understood some french, but very little. maybe enough to get through a menu at a café in paris — or so he liked to tell himself.

"uhh… let’s try, uh… say… ‘j’adore le fromage.’" he said it slowly, exaggerating each syllable like he was teaching a toddler to talk. his mouth shaped the words carefully, eyes flicking to yours to make sure you were paying attention — though he secretly enjoyed it when you got distracted and smiled at him instead.

you rolled your eyes, lips twitching into the faintest smile. “est-ce que tu connais au moins le français?” you asked, a little too quickly for him to catch.

his brows pulled together, the little crease between them deepening. “wait wha—” he stammered, blinking. “what does that mean—”

he immediately started fumbling with the massive textbook, flipping through pages with a speed that made the air between you ruffle. the corner of one page bent under his thumb and he cursed under his breath, still looking for the phrase.

you leaned over the table, your arm brushing his, and pointed toward the right section before he could even find it. “it means, do you even know french?” you whispered, your breath warm against his ear.

he looked up at you then, caught between being offended and being hopelessly charmed. “okay, ouch,” he muttered with a grin, “but fair.”

and maybe that was the thing about jeff — he wasn’t actually here to teach you french. he was here because you laughed at his bad pronunciation, because you sat close enough that your knees bumped under the table, because your handwriting in the margins of your notebook was neater than his guitar tabs but somehow felt just as personal.

outside the library window, the sun was dipping low, painting your hair with honey light. jeff didn’t find the translation in the book — he didn’t need to anymore. instead, he shut it with a soft thump and leaned in, lowering his voice like the two of you were conspiring.

“alright,” he said, “so maybe i don’t know french… but i do know you look way too good when you roll your eyes at me.”

you tried to fight your smile, but it broke through anyway. he grinned, and in that quiet, golden hour glow, french didn’t seem so important anymore.