JAY'S POV —
I'm halfway to sleep when it happens.
The knock isn't polite.
It isn't hesitant.
It's rough—uncontrolled—like whoever's on the other side isn't thinking, just reacting.
My eyes snap open.
Every instinct lights up.
I'm on my feet in seconds, gun in hand, safety off, breath quiet. The condo is dark except for the city glow leaking in through the windows. My pulse doesn't spike—it steadies.
I move.
The second knock hits harder.
I don't call out.
I open the door.
Rain spills in first.
Then him.
Keifer stumbles forward, soaked through—hair plastered to his forehead, shirt clinging to him, water dripping onto my floor like he's bleeding weather. His eyes are unfocused, glassy. There's a half-empty bottle hanging loosely from his hand.
Drunk.
Completely.
Before I can react, he steps inside and his arms come around me—clumsy, desperate, breaking every boundary I rebuilt.
I freeze.
Not from fear.
From shock.
His forehead drops against my shoulder and his body shakes.
"I'm sorry," he chokes out. "Jay—I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—"
Over and over.
Like the words are the only thing holding him upright.
Rainwater soaks into my sleeve. Whiskey clings to him. He smells like regret and ruin and a night that finally broke him.
I don't hug him back.
But I don't push him away either.
"Keifer," I say quietly, steady. "Sit down."
He doesn't listen.
"I messed up," he slurs. "I know I did. I know—God—I never meant—"
His knees buckle.
That's when I move.
I take the bottle from his hand and set it aside before it can shatter. I guide him—carefully, firmly—toward the couch. He collapses onto it like his body finally gave up pretending.
I crouch in front of him, keeping distance, watching his face slacken as consciousness slips.
He's still shaking.
Still whispering apologies into nothing.
Then his eyes flutter.
His head tilts toward me.
And just before he passes out completely, his lips move one last time.
Barely sound.
Barely breath.
"I'm sorry, Jay," he murmurs. "But I used you… to protect you."
The words hit harder than the gunshots ever did.
He goes still.
Unconscious.
Breathing slow. Uneven. Alive.
I don't touch him.
I don't cry.
I just sit there on the floor in front of him, staring at his face like it belongs to a stranger and a ghost at the same time.
Outside, the rain keeps falling.
Inside, the apology finally arrives—
Too late Too broken Too real
And I don't know yet what it's going to cost me to hear it.
-----
He's burning.
The moment my fingers brush his wrist, the heat startles me—too warm, fevered, wrong. His skin is flushed beneath the rain and alcohol, pulse erratic under my thumb.
I swear under my breath.
"Idiot," I whisper. Soft. Fond. Furious.
His weight sags forward when I try to move him, all muscle and exhaustion and a kind of surrender I've never seen on him before. The couch is too small, unforgiving, and he nearly slides off it when I try to settle him.
I make a decision.
Not logical. Not strategic.
Human.
I guide him to my bedroom.
The lights stay dim. I don't want to see too clearly. Don't want this moment sharpened into something I'll replay until it hurts.
I ease him onto the bed. He groans faintly, brows knitting, lashes dark against his cheeks. Rainwater still clings to him, dripping onto my sheets, soaking through fabric and memory alike.
I hesitate.
Then I reach for the hem of his shirt.
It sticks to him, soaked through. When I pull it up, he winces, murmuring something incoherent—my name, maybe, or maybe just the shape of it. The shirt comes off slowly, reluctantly, like even the fabric doesn't want to let him go.
I look away.
Then don't.
His chest rises and falls unevenly. Skin flushed, taut. Water beads trace paths over muscle—down collarbone, over shoulders, along the hard lines of his abdomen. He's always been built like this—strength worn casually, like he never realized the effect it had.
I hate that my breath catches.
I hate that my eyes linger.
There are bruises I didn't notice before. Faint yellowing along his ribs. A darker one near his shoulder. Proof of nights he didn't tell me about. Proof of fights he thought he deserved.
I grab a towel.
I wipe him down carefully. Methodically. Like this is just another wound to tend.
But my hands aren't strangers.
They remember him.
My fingers skim warm skin, follow familiar contours, avoid places that feel too intimate, too dangerous. I keep it practical. Professional.
Mostly.
His stomach tightens when I brush past his side. A reflex. A ghost of awareness. He exhales, low and shaky, and turns his face toward me like even unconscious, he knows where safety is.
That thought hurts worse than the bruises.
I reach into the back of my closet and pull out the hoodie.
The one I never threw away.
Oversized. Soft. Faded from too many washes. His.
I slide it over his head, tug it down gently, tucking him in like he's something fragile instead of the man who shattered me. The fabric swallows him, sleeves hanging past his hands, collar loose around his throat.
He looks younger like this.
Less sharp.
Less armored.
I press my lips together.
Medicine next.
I crush the tablet, dissolve it carefully, lift his head just enough. His eyes don't open. He can't swallow properly. My hand shakes once—just once—before I do what needs to be done.
I take the liquid into my mouth.
Lean down.
Press my lips to his.
It's not a kiss.
Not really.
But my mouth curves to his, and I let the medicine pass slowly, controlled, careful. His throat works reflexively. A small sound leaves him—softer than anything I've heard from him before.
I pull back immediately.
My heart is racing like I've done something reckless.
Something intimate.
I wipe my mouth. Step away.
I should leave the room.
I don't.
Instead, I sit on the floor beside the bed.
Back against the frame. Knees drawn up. Exhaustion settling into my bones now that the adrenaline is gone. I reach up, just barely, and let my hand rest against his.
He's still warm.
Still here.
My fingers curl around his loosely, not holding—just present.
Like a promise I'm not sure I can keep.
I don't cry.
Tears would be easier.
Instead, I watch the slow rise and fall of his chest. Count his breaths. Listen to the rain against the windows.
The words he said echo, relentless.
I used you… to protect you.
I close my eyes.
And stay awake.
Guarding him.
Guarding myself.
Until sleep finally claims me on the floor— hand still touching his— caught between the man he was, the man he became, and the girl I had to stop being to survive loving him.