Jean had just finished her wanpaku sandwich when she accidentally dropped her water bottle. It slipped from her fingers and rolled across the table, the glass clattering noisily against the smooth surface before coming to a stop near Oscar’s side. With a faint sigh, he leaned over. His shoulders shifted beneath the fabric of his shirt in a way that 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 break’s nearly over.”

But Jean wasn’t done.

“Alright, alright. Just flex your muscles for a tick. 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.

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

“Alright, You win. I’ll stop bugging you 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 down, pointedly avoiding Julian’s. The tension between them hadn’t eased since their argument after last week's match. It hung heavy, stretched thin like thread about to snap.

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

Jean stood up a little too fast.

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

Julian looked at her, tight as ever.

“You sure you don’t want a hand?”

"I'm good," she replied, her tone clipped and dismissive, her eyes on the gear in front of her.

The task was grimmer 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 kit crate.

“Let me help.”

Jean stiffened. She didn’t turn. 

"I'm alright. You don't have to, honestly. Just head back already, Julian."

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

"Let's sort this out, 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 need to stop with your unwanted comments about my personal life. Who I see is my business, innit?"

Around Julian, she always felt like a contradiction. She challenged him constantly—his authority, his structure, his patience—and yet, he allowed her. 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, stone-like surface.

And maybe that terrified him most of all.

“I know,” he said, 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.