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It was late that night when Jean was jolted awake by the soft click of the doorknob and the faint shuffle of someone entering the apartment. Those footsteps were familiar now—unmistakably Jeremy’s. Jean listened to the heavy breathing that followed, the rustle of fabric as Jeremy peeled off what sounded like a jacket. He turned to glance at the clock: just past 3 a.m.
A wave of concern stirred in him. Jeremy again—coming home this late. Jean rose from bed, his worry outweighing his drowsiness. He knew, or thought he knew, what Jeremy had been doing. But at this hour? How could he possibly have the strength to keep up with practice in the morning?
Jean stepped out of his room, entered the living room and froze. Jeremy was in the kitchen, moving frantically as he fumbled with the coffee maker. The word erratic came to Jean’s mind—Jeremy’s breaths were still sharp and uneven, his shoulders drawn tight and trembling with tension. Something was wrong. He didn’t even seem to notice Jean standing there, not even as Jean quietly started toward him.
But Jeremy heard his footsteps and spun around so fast that Jean jumped. Then he saw his face.
Jeremy looked wrecked- No, Distraught.
His distraught expression was streamed with the damp traces of dried tears, his beautiful brown eyes—eyes Jean had always cherished—now swollen and red. Jean’s gaze dropped, catching the bruise blooming across Jeremy’s lower lip, one corner dark purple and crusted with dried blood.
Jean didn’t say anything at first. Neither did Jeremy.
Rage burned through him, hot and blinding as instinct took over him. All he could do was stare, counting every mark, every bruise, every bit of pain carved into Jeremy’s skin—and imagining how much worse he’d make it for the repulsive monster who had done this.
Then his eyes met Jeremy’s. Those eyes he loved so much were wide, trembling. Jeremy looked terrified, fragile in a way Jean had never seen before. And still, he kept shaking—like the fear hadn’t left him yet, like it was still inside him, refusing to let go.
“J-Jean… I—” Jeremy tried to speak, but his voice sounded wrong—hoarse, shredded, breaking apart with every word. It didn’t even sound like him. It was rough, torn up, like his vocal cords had been dragged through gravel.
Jean looked at Jeremy and, without thinking, reached out to touch his face.
But Jeremy’s reaction was instant—violent. He flinched so hard it stopped Jean cold. In a blink, his expression shifted from fear to pure horror. His shoulders locked, his body jerked back, putting space between them. Then his eyes met Jean’s again, wide and panicked, as if he’d just realized what he’d done.
It took Jean a moment to process what he’d just seen. Jeremy had never reacted to touch like that—never. But those eyes, wide and terrified, said everything.
Jean’s gaze swept over him: the disheveled jumper, the tangled hair, the split, bruised lip. The pieces fell into place too easily, too horribly.
“What happened ?”
The words hung in the air like a crack of thunder. Silence followed—thick, suffocating. Jeremy went still, his breath catching.
Jean’s fists clenched until his knuckles whitened; it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room.
Then Jeremy broke. The sound of it—his sob, his collapse—hit Jean harder than anything else ever could.
“J-J-Jean… I—!”
The words broke apart between ragged sobs as Jeremy crumpled to the floor. Jean didn’t think—he just moved, catching him, wrapping him up in his arms. He held him tight, careful, as if Jeremy might shatter if he let go.
Jeremy buried himself against him, crying uncontrollably, his tears and breath coming in frantic bursts.
“Jeremy, Jeremy, it's okay, it's okay..”
Jean kept close, doing what he could to soothe Jeremy and calm the guttural cries coming from his voice.
“Was it your family? Did you see them??"
Jeremy shook his head, tears still falling. Whatever had happened had frightened him beyond anything Jean had ever seen.
He didn’t understand. Who would want to hurt him? He must have been assaulted, robbed or-
Jean went still.
Could it—
No no.
He couldn’t let himself think that.
But-
“D-Did… you meet someone?”
Jeremy looked back, then nodded once.
“Did this person.. hurt you.”
Jeremy sucked in a breath, sharp and sudden. Jean saw it then—the reaction was too telling, too close to the truth.
No.
No no no no.
He couldn’t process it.
Couldn’t make it make sense.
But Jeremy’s pain was right there, undeniable.
Then the memories hit. Grayson and the others. Those five nights. The kind of pain you don’t talk about, the kind that lingers under your skin. The trembling that wouldn’t stop for days. The filth that never seems to wash off.
Jean watched Jeremy sob, then carefully, very carefully, drew him into an embrace.
He should’ve stopped it.
He should’ve been there.
Did they meet in a club? Has Jeremy met them before?
Jean knew how dangerous the city became at night. This place, though—this place was supposed to be safe.
And yet here he was. Jeremy.
His Jeremy.
His captain.
Broken.
By some filthy, fucking monster who thought they could touch him, hurt him, ruin him.
As Jeremy’s breaths began to slow, Jean’s only grew harsher—ragged, uneven, burning through his chest. He tried to hold it back, to keep from shaking, to keep from falling apart.
His jaw tightened, voice low and rough when he finally spoke…
" Who. "
Jeremy sniffled, pressing his face deeper into Jean’s chest, his whole body still shaking in his arms—small, fragile tremors that wouldn’t stop.
“I.. I don’t know his name.”
The silence was deafening.
Jean’s fists tightened until his nails bit into his palms. His breath came short, his vision narrowing.
He could see it—whoever it was, faceless, nameless—and the rage rose sharp and blinding. He wanted to break them, to crush bone under his hands, to make them beg for mercy that wouldn’t come. Every heartbeat screamed for violence.
Someone had hurt Jeremy. And that someone was still out there.
“Jean..”
The sound was barely a whisper — soft, cracked, trembling. His captain’s voice, once so steady and sure, now small against Jean’s chest. It carried a kind of helplessness that made Jean’s heart ache.
"What.. d-do I do…?”
The words came out so soft Jean almost missed them — almost. But he heard. He heard every broken piece of what Jeremy was really asking.
Jeremy wasn’t just speaking to him; he was reaching for him.
Because Jean had been there.
Because Jean knew.
He wanted to know how Jean survived it.
Jean drew in a slow breath, forcing his hands to steady.
“We… call the police.”
Jeremy went still. For a few seconds, there was nothing—just the faint sounds of their breathing. Then he gave a small, scared, shaky nod against Jean’s chest.
And as they held each other in the darkness of that small living room, with Jeremy’s head firmly against Jean’s chest.
Jean muttered the following promise under his breath, “Et je vous le promets, capitaine. Je les tuerai. Ils paieront."