Jean had just finished her wanpaku sandwich when she accidentally knocked her water bottle. It slipped from her fingers and rolled across the table, the metal bottle clattering noisily against the smooth surface table before falling off near to Oscar’s side and landing on his foot. With a faint sigh, he leaned down. His shoulders shifted beneath the fabric of his shirt in a way that annoyingly drew the eye and retrieved it, holding it out to her without a word.

She accepted it with a grin, her eyes gleaming with sudden mischief.

“So it’s true then… swimmers really do have properly broad shoulders.”

Oscar shot her a pointed look, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting off a smile.

​“Are you always this all over the shop?”

​Jean propped her chin in her palm, unabashed.

​“We should have an arm wrestle—just this once!”

​He rolled his eyes with an air of overplayed weariness.

​“We both know who’s going to wipe the floor with who.”

​“Wuss,” she teased, the challenge unmistakable in her tone.

​“Just focus,” he muttered, already glancing back down at his tablet. “Lunch is nearly over.”

​But Jean wasn’t done.

​“Alright, alright. Just give us a flex then. Go on. For science.”

​Oscar let out the long-suffering sigh of someone used to this sort of thing. Still, he raised his arm and flexed, slowly and with exaggerated reluctance. The muscle curved into a clean, powerful swell beneath his sleeve, and a flicker of smugness crossed his features.

“Alright, alright. Just flex your muscles for a tick. Go on. For science.”.

Jean blinked, perhaps staring a second too long. Her grin faltered for a moment, and she gave a short, breathless laugh, brushing hair from her face.

“Right. You win. I’ll stop winding you up now.”

But the image lingered.

Later that day, after her disconcerting lunchtime chat with Oscar, she pulled on her boots at the training ground, her movements sharp and precise, as if trying to burn off an inner restlessness. She kept her gaze away from the boys’ pitch, pointedly avoiding Julian’s. The tension between them hadn’t eased since their argument after Sunday's match. It hung heavy, stretched thin like a thread about to snap.

“Julian! Jean!” one of their teammates called, waving them over from the pavilion. “The gaffer wants you two to sort out the kit inventory for the next match.”

Jean ran up a little too fast.

​"I can handle that myself, no worries. Tell him I'll be there in ten minutes."

​Julian looked at her, his expression tight.

​“You sure you don’t want a hand?”

​"I'm fine," she replied, her tone clipped and dismissive, eyes fixed on the checklist passed by her teammate.

The task was more of a slog than she’d expected.

Nearly an hour later, she was still knee-deep in boxes of mismatched kits and scribbled, half-legible inventory sheets. The task was as dull as it was draining. Her fingers ached from lifting boxes. Her stubbornness so often her shield was beginning to feel more like a burden.

She knew she’d overreacted that day. She also knew she wasn’t ready to say that out loud.

​As she stacked yet another box, her arms aching from the effort, she heard familiar footsteps approaching from behind.

​Julian.

​“Here,” he said quietly, bending beside her and reaching for the final crate of footballs. “Let me help.”

​Jean stiffened. She didn’t turn.

​"I said I'm alright. You don't have to, honestly. Just head off, Julian.”

He didn’t move. His presence stayed grounded and calm, a steady pressure she couldn’t ignore.

​"Let's just get this sorted, Jean. You can't keep blanking me forever. Don't you see it's only going to make things harder?"

​Her jaw clenched, her eyes still fixed on the box in her hands.

​"Tu as merdé. You messed up. You need to stop with the digs about my personal life. Who I see is my business, isn't it?"

​Around Julian, she always felt like a contradiction. She challenged him constantly: his authority, his structure, his patience and yet, he allowed it. No one else gave her that space.

Perhaps because she was the only one who ever looked at him and didn’t flinch. The only one who dared to see what lay beneath his polished, granite-like surface.

​And maybe that terrified him most of all.

​“I know,” he said, his voice low and rough with sincerity. “I overstepped. I shouldn’t have said what I did. I’m sorry, Jean.”

​"You obviously did," she muttered, but her voice had lost its sting. The sharp edges of her anger were beginning to dull.

​A pause stretched between them, filled with something that had always remained unnamed. The quiet was distinctly awkward, but not hostile anymore.

Then, almost without thinking, Jean reached out and gave his back a light pat. It was brief, clumsy, and far from graceful, but it held something real. A crack in the wall she’d built.

​“Alright,” she said softly.

​A tentative step towards reconciliation.

Julian gave a slow nod, his eyes steady on hers, searching for a sign of forgiveness. They weren't completely fine, the underlying tension still simmering beneath the surface, but something significant had shifted between them.

For now, they were back on level ground.