Jay POV
Morning light slips through the curtains like it doesn't know it's walking into a mess.
I wake up before my alarm, which already annoys me. My brain does that thing where it replays last night without asking permission.
The kiss.
I roll onto my side and bury my face into the pillow.
Nope. Not starting the day like this.
By the time I shower and get dressed, I've rebuilt my composure. Hair neat. Expression neutral. Armor on.
The hallway smells like coffee.
That's… unexpected.
I step out of my condo and almost walk straight into him.
"Morning," Keifer says easily, like we didn't almost rewrite history twelve hours ago.
I stop short. He's leaning against his door, mug in hand, dressed casually—black T-shirt, sleeves pushed up. Too domestic. Too normal.
"Morning," I reply, forcing my voice steady.
He glances at the elevator, then back at me. "You heading out?"
"Yes."
"Same."
Of course.
We walk together without discussing it, footsteps falling into an easy rhythm that makes my chest tighten. I hate that it feels natural.
The elevator arrives. We step inside.
Silence—but not uncomfortable. The kind that hums.
He presses the button for the lobby, then glances at me. "You slept?"
I nod. "Eventually."
A corner of his mouth lifts. "Good."
I should ignore that. I don't.
The elevator mirrors catch my reflection—and his. He's watching me, not openly, just enough that I notice.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing," he says. Then, softer, "You're smiling."
I blink. I am?
I turn away quickly. "You're imagining things."
"Maybe." He sips his coffee. "Or maybe you're just not as mad as you pretend."
I scoff. "Don't push it, Watson."
His eyes warm at the sound of his name. "There she is."
The doors open.
We step into the lobby together, the morning bustle swallowing us up. At the entrance, we pause—like neither of us is quite ready to break the bubble.
He holds the door open for me.
"Jay," he says, not stopping me, just… calling my attention.
I look back.
"No pressure today," he adds. "Just… have a good morning."
I hesitate. Then, without thinking, I reply, "You too."
And when I turn away, I feel it—
his gaze following me, gentle, hopeful.
I don't look back.
But I smile.
Keifer POV
She didn't flinch when she saw me.
That's how I know things changed.
If last night had been a mistake to her, she would've avoided me. Taken the stairs. Walled herself off.
Instead, she walked beside me.
Stood close in the elevator.
Smiled—without realizing it.
I watch her disappear into the morning crowd, that quiet strength wrapping around her like it always has.
I don't chase her.
I don't need to.
She didn't pull away today.
For now, that's enough.
Later that day....
I didn't plan on running into him.
That's the thing—I don't plan anymore. I schedule, I calculate, I control. But this? This was just coffee.
Starbucks, late morning. Not rush hour, not empty either. The kind of time when people are half-awake and pretending their lives are calm.
I'm near the pickup counter, scrolling through emails I'm not really reading, when someone steps into my peripheral vision holding a paper bag that absolutely does not belong to Starbucks.
I know before I look.
"You still drink caramel," Keifer says behind me. "Extra shot. No whipped cream."
I turn slowly.
He's standing there—too close to be coincidence, too relaxed to be an accident. Black shirt. Sleeves rolled up. In his left hand, a small bouquet wrapped in brown paper. Simple. White flowers. Nothing dramatic.
My eyes drop to them before I can stop myself.
"…Are those for me?" I ask flatly.
"They were," he says. "Now they're… negotiable."
I scoff. "You stalking me now?"
He lifts one shoulder. "No. I was meeting someone across the street. Saw you walk in."
That tracks. This Starbucks faces a whole strip of offices and cafés. Normal enough. Annoyingly believable.
"So you followed me inside," I say.
"I waited five minutes," he corrects. "Then decided I didn't want to keep pretending I didn't see you."
I hate that my lips twitch.
I reach for my drink just to ground myself. The barista slides it over. I take a sip. Too sweet. Too familiar.
Silence stretches—but not awkward. Just… cautious.
"So," I say finally, eyes on my cup. "Flowers."
"They're not an apology," he says quickly. "And they're not a bribe."
I glance at him. "Then what are they?"
"A peace offering," he says. "You can say no."
I should. I really should.
Instead, I say, "You're bad at casual."
A corner of his mouth lifts. "You're worse at pretending you don't care."
I glare at him. He doesn't flinch.
We stand there like two people who know each other's habits too well. Like history isn't sitting between us, breathing.
"How have you been?" he asks, softer now.
I shrug. "Busy."
"I know."
Of course he does.
"And you?" I ask before I can stop myself.
He studies me for a second, then answers honestly. "Trying not to rush things."
That makes my chest tighten more than any confession could.
I gesture vaguely. "You always rush."
"I used to," he says. "I'm learning."
Another pause.
He extends the flowers—not pushing them into my hands, just offering.
I stare at them. At him.
"I'm not promising anything," I warn.
"I'm not asking for anything," he says.
I take them.
Just like that.
"Don't let it get to your head," I mutter.
"Too late," he says lightly.
We both almost smile.
Then—inevitable.
"Can I get your number?" he asks.
I blink. "Huh?"
I look up at him, unimpressed. "Didn't you get my number from your so-called ways?"
He doesn't deny it. That's important.
"I could," he says. "But I want you to give me."
I tilt my head. "Why?"
"Because if you do," he says quietly, "it means this isn't just me chasing ghosts."
My fingers tighten around the coffee cup.
"You're confident," I say.
"I'm patient," he corrects.
I sigh, already losing this internal argument.
"You know this doesn't mean anything."
"I know."
"And you don't text first."
A small smile. "I'll wait."
I pull out my phone.
"…You're impossible," I say as I type.
"And you're blushing," he says gently.
"I am not."
"You are."
I hand him the phone without looking at him.
"There," I say. "Don't read into it."
He takes it carefully, like it matters more than it should.
"I won't," he says.
I turn to leave.
Behind me, I hear him exhale—slow, steady. Like someone holding onto hope without squeezing too hard.
And for the first time since the kiss—
It doesn't feel like a mistake.