JAY-JAY POV
It's been one week since the accident.
My body still aches, but I can walk by myself again.
Every step feels like a victory, proof that I survived.
But Keifer… He acts like he's carrying something heavy, a secret he doesn't want me to know.
His eyes linger on me longer than before, filled with something deeper than worry.
Sometimes, I catch him staring at nothing, lost in thought, his jaw tight, his fists clenched.
And when I ask, he smiles too quickly, too easily.
"Nothing," he says.
But I know him.
I know when he's lying.
At night, when he thinks I'm asleep, I hear him whisper.
Words I can't always catch, but the tone is raw, broken.
Like he's mourning something.
Like he's protecting me from a truth too painful to speak.
I want to press him.
I want to demand answers.
But part of me is afraid.
Afraid of what he's hiding.
Afraid that knowing will break me all over again.
So I stay quiet.
For now.
But the silence between us feels heavier than the accident itself.
And I know—sooner or later—his secret will come out.
I snuck into the kitchen, careful not to make a sound.
Keifer had been strict with my diet—only vegetables, no junk food—so this was my only chance.
I opened the fridge and reached for the ice cream, my guilty prize.
Just as I was about to take a bite, the lights flicked on. I froze. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
"Explain yourself," Keifer's voice cut through the silence.
"Keifer, you've only been giving me veggies. I want something else," I said, frustration spilling out.
His tone rose, sharp and angry. "Jay, why can't you understand? You're sick. You can't eat junk food!"
Tears welled in my eyes, spilling before I could stop them.
He noticed, his expression shifting, but the damage was done.
In anger, I throw the melting ice cream against his shirt, the cold mess splattering across him.
Without another word, I stormed into the living room and dropped onto the sofa, my chest tight.
"Jay… I'm sorry," he said softly from behind me.
I didn't answer. He sat down beside me, his shirt still sticky from the ice cream.
"Jay," he said softly. I kept my silence.
"Jay‑Jay, please," he tried again, his voice almost pleading. I ignored him, staring straight ahead.
With a sigh, he tugged off the ruined shirt, his toned body suddenly exposed. When he caught me staring, a smirk curved his lips. "Enjoying the view?" he teased.
I grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at him. He laughed, catching it clumsily, then leaned in and pressed his lips against mine.
I pushed him back, my cheeks burning. "Jay, my wife, my life—please talk to me," he said, dropping to his knees like some dramatic actor on stage.
I bit back a laugh, the corners of my mouth twitching despite myself.
Finally, I let the silence crack.
"You know, Keifer," I said, tilting my head, "if you're going to act like this, at least audition for a soap opera. You'd win an award for 'Most Overdramatic Husband.'"
His eyes widened, then he burst out laughing, the tension melting instantly. "Ah, so you can talk," he teased, relief flooding his face.
I smirked, crossing my arms. "Only because your performance was too ridiculous to ignore. Next time, try crying louder—I might even clap."
He chuckled, leaning closer, his grin mischievous. "Careful, Jay. If you keep teasing me, I'll have to kiss you again."
I raised a brow, grabbing another pillow. "Try it, and you'll be wearing this one too."
The room filled with laughter, the fight forgotten, replaced by playful chaos. And just like that, the silence was broken—not with anger, but with love disguised as banter.
"Let's go sleep, it's midnight," he said, his voice firm.
I shook my head stubbornly. "I want ice cream."
He sighed. "But—"
"No buts," I cut him off, narrowing my eyes. "Either I get ice cream, or I won't come to bed. And no kisses for you."
His lips twitched, fighting a smile. "Fine. But only one scoop."
I nodded in triumph.
A few minutes later, he returned from the kitchen, carrying a bowl with exactly one scoop of ice cream. He handed it to me, his expression annoyingly smug.
I dug in happily, savoring the cold sweetness. But when I glanced up, he was staring at me—intensely, like I was the only thing in the world worth watching.
"Stop staring," I said, pouting around my spoon.
He smirked, leaning back. "Can't help it. You're cuter than the ice cream."
I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks warmed anyway.
When I finally finished the ice cream, he looked at me. "Done?" he asked.
I nodded, moving to put the bowl away, but Keifer was faster. He slipped it from my hands with a smirk. "I'll take that," he said, disappearing into the kitchen.
I followed him, reaching for a hairclip on the counter. Just as I was about to tie my hair, it slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor. I bent down to pick it up—and when I rose, I caught him staring.
His gaze was dark, intense, like it could devour me whole.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked, my voice unsteady.
"Like what?" he said, stepping closer.
I backed away until my spine pressed against the counter. "Like you want to eat me alive," I whispered.
"Maybe I do," he murmured, caging me in with his arms.
His eyes flicked down, lingering. "You know how short that shirt is? It barely covers you. And when you bent to pick up that clip… your whole back was exposed. How do you expect me to control myself?"
Before I could answer, his lips crashed against mine—hungry, desperate, passionate.
The kiss stole my breath, igniting fire where moments ago there had only been ice cream.
The kiss deepened, his hands anchoring me as if he couldn't bear to let go.
One step led to another, and before I knew it, we were in our room.
The world outside didn't matter anymore.
The pain, the hospital, the arguments over vegetables—all of it melted away.
There was only us.
And the rest… The rest is history.
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🌹✨ Author's Note ✨🌹
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