"I take it this isn’t your first rodeo?"

Levi broke the silence at last, his voice low and unhurried. They were still sprawled across the floor of the vinyl shop, his arm draped around her, their legs tangled together in easy abandon.

"Nah. I’m half French—comes with a bit of experience, I suppose." Jean smirked, amusement tugging at her lips though she didn’t turn her head to look at him.

He chuckled softly.

"So what does that make me, then? A proper coureur de jupons?"

At that, she finally turned her head, amber eyes catching his with a glint of challenge. The world outside had faded to a distant hum, irrelevant for now. Smoke curled lazily towards the ceiling like an unspoken pact, soft and drowsy, blurring the hard lines of reality into something more forgiving.

"Dunno. Are you? Renee doesn’t really talk about you much. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it—what secrets are you hiding, Levi Constantine?"

“Ouch,” he replied with a dramatic wince, grinning despite himself. “Maybe that’s 'cause I’m the black sheep of the Constantine flock.”

“I forgot—there were five of you, right?”

“Six, actually,” he said, a faint sigh escaping before he could stop it. "Renee's the baby of the bunch. I'm the fifth."

Jean raised a brow, the silent prompt clear in her expression.

“And the rest of them—doing smashingly well, are they? All perfect little Constantines, I imagine?”

Levi gave a tired sort of laugh, the kind that doesn’t quite reach the eyes.

“More or less. Mum and Dad reckon I’ll still be kicking about the house when Renee’s off at uni.”

Jean nudged his leg with her foot, playful but with a knowing look that made him pause.

“Ha. Sounds a bit like me, that. The eternal disappointment.”

He tilted his head, studying her with curiosity now.

"What are you on about? You're good at footie, you're clever, and you're captain of the team. How are we anything alike? You seem to have it all figured out—at least on the pitch.”

She hesitated, eyes drifting up to the ceiling as if the words were stuck somewhere between honesty and habit. A flicker of something unguarded crossed her face.

“My father doesn’t want me playing professionally. He’s very... old school. Thinks it’s not a proper path for a lady. So... I don’t really know what I’ll end up doing yet.”

Levi propped himself up on one elbow, his usual smirk gone, replaced with a softness most people never got to see.

“That’s a real shame, Jean. You’re brilliant at it from what I’ve heard. Don’t you want to go pro?”

Jean breathed out slowly, the admission quiet but firm.

“Not really. Football was just a way to wind him up.”

He laughed, a real one this time, rich and unrestrained, catching both of them off-guard.

“Blimey. That’s some serious commitment. Becoming captain just to piss off your old man?”

Jean shrugged, but the subtle curve of her smirk betrayed a flicker of pride, a quiet satisfaction in her unconventional form of defiance. She looked down at the scattered playing cards on the floor close to them, her fingers brushing against one. 

“Huh. I guess you’re right, actually. When you put it like that…”

There was a lull, a stillness that crept in like fog. The moment hung suspended, fragile, as if neither of them dared to break it just yet.

Then Levi checked the time on his phone and cursed under his breath. 

"Crikey, it's late! Don't you lot have school tomorrow?"

“Cripes!” Jean shot upright. “I’m off then. Cheers for… well, you know.”

He didn’t reply. Just watched her gather her things, saying nothing. His hands slipped into his pockets, jaw tight around all the things he wouldn’t let himself say.

When Jean finally made it home, the quiet was just as she’d left it.

No welcoming lights spilling from windows, no warm voices filled with genuine concern or affection. Just the same vast silence that wrapped around the estate like Wisteria, serene, creeping, and impossible to shake.

Her footsteps echoed down the long hallway, only to be devoured by a house too enormous, too empty, and too watchful all at once. The walls were lined with cold portraits and even colder expectations. Their faces rendered in oil and gilt but stripped of warmth, each gaze more disapproving than the last.

Everything gleamed with expensive perfection: floors polished to a mirror’s sheen, corners untouched by dust, order so precise it felt unnatural. It was a place preserved, not lived in.

A mausoleum masquerading as a home. Lifeless.

And as always, the same uninvited companion stirred to greet her upon her arrival: loneliness, patient and unyielding, seeping from the walls and rising from the floors, encircling her like smoke. The estate’s truest resident, her most faithful shadow. A guest unbidden, yet impossible to ever be banished.