𝓘𝓷𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓲𝓫𝓵𝓮 𝓛𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓼 (Jean Kirstein x Reader)

You weren't looking for him. Just air, just quiet, just an escape from the crush of voices and the bass rattling the walls. But sometimes the night gives you things you didn't ask for.

Jean Kirstein is leaning against the balcony railing, half-forgotten beer in his hand, half a ghost in the moonlight. He's not the party type, and neither are you.

One conversation, half-laughter and half-confession, is enough to shift the ground beneath your feet. Enough to peel back the noise and reveal something fragile, something that feels like possibility.

It's a story about noticing the wrong people at the right time. About grief and softness and the way two strangers can carry each other through the weight of a night.

Maybe it means nothing.
Maybe it means everything.
But he stays.