KEIFER'S POV —
I wake up slow.
Not the clean kind of waking—
the kind where consciousness creeps in like a bruise being pressed.
My head throbs. My mouth tastes like metal and regret. My body feels wrong—too warm, too heavy, too… cared for.
That's when I realize—
I'm not on the couch.
I'm on a bed.
Soft sheets. Familiar scent. Not mine.
Her.
I blink hard, trying to piece the night together.
Rain.
Whiskey.
Driving when I shouldn't have.
Her door. Her face. The way she didn't slam it shut.
Jay.
My chest tightens.
I shift slightly—and fabric slides against my skin.
A hoodie.
Fresh. Clean. Too big.
I know this hoodie.
This was the one she stole when she thought I was not looking...
My throat goes dry.
I lift my hand, fingers brushing the sleeve like I'm afraid it'll disappear. The smell hits me then—laundry soap, something warm underneath.
She kept it.
I swallow.
And then I see her.
On the floor.
Curled on her side beside the bed, back against the frame like she chose discomfort on purpose. One arm stretched out, her hand resting loosely near mine, fingers slack with sleep.
Guarding.
Even now.
Something in my chest breaks open quietly.
She hates me.
She should.
And still—she stayed.
I don't move. Don't breathe too deep. I just watch her like this is something sacred I'm not allowed to disturb.
Her face is softer in sleep. No armor. No sharp edges. Just the girl I fell in love with before everything went wrong.
My lips curve into a small, helpless smile.
Then she shifts.
Just a little.
Her brows knit, like her body remembered something before her mind did. She stirs, lifting her head slightly.
I close my eyes instinctively.
Pretend.
I feel her hand.
Warm fingers press to my forehead, gentle but practiced. Checking. Measuring. Caring in the way she pretends she doesn't anymore.
"…good," she mutters under her breath. "No fever. Asshole."
I almost laugh.
Almost cry.
Her hand withdraws. I feel the absence immediately—cold where warmth was. I hear her shift, probably standing up, probably leaving before I can say something unforgivable.
Before I can beg.
Before she can remember she hates me.
I don't think.
I react.
My hand shoots out and closes around her wrist.
She gasps—not loud, just startled—and turns.
Our faces are suddenly too close.
Her eyes are wide, furious, exhausted, haunted.
"You're awake," she snaps. "Let go."
I don't.
"I remember," I say hoarsely. "Not everything. But enough."
Her jaw tightens.
"You shouldn't."
"I remember coming here," I whisper. "I remember saying sorry. I remember you."
Silence stretches, taut as wire.
Her eyes flick down—to the hoodie. To my hand holding hers.
"You don't get to—" she starts.
I pull her—just enough.
And I kiss her.
It's not careful.
It's not clean.
It's desperate and soft and breaking all at once—like I've been holding my breath since the moment I hurt her.
For a second—
She doesn't respond.
She's rigid. Shocked. Still deciding whether to shoot me or shove me through the wall.
Then—
Her lips move.
Just barely.
A sigh slips into my mouth like surrender she'll hate herself for later. Her fingers curl involuntarily, knuckles brushing my chest through the hoodie.
For one heartbeat—
It's us.
Then she shoves me hard.
"Profanity" I spoke shamelessly...
"Don't," she snaps, eyes blazing, breath uneven. "Don't you dare confuse care with forgiveness."
I let go immediately.
Sit back.
The smile is gone.
So is the illusion.
She wipes her mouth like she can erase what just happened.
"That didn't mean anything," she says, sharp, defensive, hurt. "You don't get to take moments from me anymore."
I nod.
Because she's right.
But my chest still aches where her warmth was.
And even as she turns away—
Even as anger shields her again—
I know one thing with brutal clarity:
She wouldn't have stayed
if there wasn't still something in her
that hadn't stopped loving me yet.
And that might be the cruelest mercy of all.
Alright. Deep breath. This one hurts in a loud, breaking way.
I'll keep it raw, shouted, messy, devastating—but controlled.
---
THE ARGUMENT — WHEN TRUTH COMES TOO LATE
The room doesn't breathe.
It holds tension like a held blade.
Jay turns away from me, arms crossed tight over her chest like she's holding herself together by force alone.
"That," she says sharply, "never happens again."
I sit up fully now, pain blooming behind my eyes that has nothing to do with alcohol or bruises.
"You think I planned that?" I snap. "You think I came here to—"
She whirls on me.
"DON'T," she shouts. "Don't raise your voice like you still get a say in my life."
The words hit.
Hard.
I stand.
"You kissed me back," I say, too fast, too honest.
Her laugh is sharp and humorless. "Congratulations. Trauma response. You want a medal?"
That stings worse than any punch I took last night.
"You took care of me," I push on. "You put me in your bed. You stayed."
Her eyes flash. "Because I'm not a monster."
"And neither am I!" I shout back.
Silence crashes between us.
Her hands tremble. Mine do too.
"You don't get to decide that," she says quietly. "You don't get to break me and then rewrite the reason."
Something in me snaps.
"No," I growl. "I get to tell you the truth."
She scoffs. "I don't want it."
"I don't care," I say, voice cracking. "You deserve it."
She opens her mouth to argue "I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE TRUTH ANYMORE KEIFER!!!!! "
I lost it and shouted...
"I USED YOU TO PROTECT YOU, DAMMIT."
The words tear out of me.
"I love you,Jay" I continue, louder now, breaking. "More than I even knew I was capable of. And that was the problem."
Her breath stutters.
"I didn't push you away because I wanted to," I say, pacing now, hands fisting in my hair. "I pushed you away because if I didn't—they would've taken you. Or worse."
Her eyes narrow. "Who."
"The Watson elders," I spit. "Clyde. The board. The men who raised me to be an asset, not a son."
She stiffens.
"They knew there was someone," I go on, voice shaking. "Not your name. Never that. But a girl. Someone I cared about."
I laugh bitterly. "They had a blurred picture, Jay. Blurred. And still, that was enough."
Her face pales.
"They own everything," I continue. "Money. Judges. Police. Information. They wanted leverage. They wanted the inheritance. My inheritance."
I step closer, desperation clawing up my throat.
"I had to preserve it," I say. "Because if I lost it, I lost control. And if I lost control—"
"You lost me anyway," she cuts in.
The words land like a gunshot.
"I know," I whisper.
"You don't get to play hero," she says, voice trembling now. "You don't get to decide my death for me."
"I wasn't deciding," I say fiercely. "I was preventing it."
"You broke me," she shouts. "You looked me in the eyes and said you used me like I was disposable."
"I said it so they'd believe it!" I yell back. "So they'd stop digging. So they'd think you meant nothing."
She laughs again—but this time it's shattered.
"Congratulations," she says. "You succeeded."
I reach for her.
She steps back.
"Don't touch me," she warns.
My hand falls uselessly to my side.
"You turned me into someone I didn't recognize," she says quietly. "I had to change myself just to survive missing you."
My chest caves in.
"I know," I whisper. "And I'll regret that for the rest of my life."
Silence stretches. Thick. Final.
Then she straightens.
Cold. Composed. Finished.
"Leave," she says.
The word is calm.
Deadlier than screaming.
"Jay—"
"Leave," she repeats. "Now."
I stare at her, searching—hoping—for anything. A crack. A hesitation.
There is none.
So I nod.
Once.
I walk to the door.
My hand pauses on the handle.
I turn back.
She doesn't look at me.
"I love you, Jay," I say softly. "I always did. I always will."
Her shoulders tense.
She doesn't respond.
I open the door.
Step out.
And this time—
She doesn't stop me.