I place the flowers on my kitchen counter and stare at them like they personally offended me.
I told myself I'd leave them there.
I didn't.
I cut the stems, find a vase, arrange them carefully.
That's when it hits me — how easy it still feels. How natural.
Annoying.
Later, when I'm alone in my room, the kiss sneaks back in.
The warmth.
The familiarity.
The way my body reacted before my brain could stop it.
I flop onto the bed and cover my face with my hands.
"I didn't hate it," I whisper.
"I just… shouldn't have liked it."
My phone vibrates.
Keifer
Of course.
Keifer:
Did the flowers survive the trip?
I bite my lip.
Jay:
Barely.
A pause.
Keifer:
I'll take that as a win.
I roll my eyes, but my cheeks burn.
Keifer POV
She replied.
Again.
That's not nothing.
I lean back in my chair, phone in my hand, replaying the way she looked after the kiss — flustered, defensive, glowing despite herself.
She's not over it.
She's not over us.
And maybe she hates that as much as I love it.
Keifer:
You don't have to keep them if you don't want to.
I wait.
Jay:
Too late.
I smile slowly.
Morning — Jay POV
Morning doesn't feel heavy.
It feels… normal. Comfortable. Like something old slipping back into place.
My phone lights up again.
Keifer:
Good morning, Jay.
I stare at it, then sigh.
Jay:
Morning.
Keifer:
Did you sleep well?
Jay:
Don't overdo it.
Keifer:
I'm just being polite.
I snort.
Liar.
Keifer POV
She's still the same.
Deflecting. Guarded. Soft underneath.
I don't push. I won't mess this up by moving too fast again.
Keifer:
I'll see you around.
Not when.
Not where.
Just… around.
Jay:
Yeah.
That single word shouldn't feel like hope.
But it does.
Because she didn't say don't.
It starts quietly.
Not every hour.
Not dramatic.
Just… consistent.
Keifer:
Did you eat?
I stare at the message longer than I should.
Jay:
Don't start acting like you're my habit.
Keifer:
Too late.
I scoff, but I still answer.
Jay:
Yes.
A few minutes later—
Keifer:
Good.
That's it.
No follow-up.
No teasing.
No pressure.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
The next day.
Keifer:
You survived the day?
Jay:
Barely.
Keifer:
Proud of you.
I pause.
No one says that so casually. Like surviving is enough. Like I don't have to prove anything.
Keifer POV
I don't text her all the time.
I text her enough.
Enough that she knows I'm here.
Enough that she doesn't feel cornered.
Some days she replies fast.
Some days she takes hours.
I never comment on it.
That's restraint.
That's growth.
Keifer:
Weather's annoying today.
Jay:
You sound old.
Keifer:
I earned it.
She sends a laughing emoji.
I stare at it like it's a victory medal.
Jay POV
By the third day, it feels… normal.
Dangerously normal.
He remembers small things.
Keifer:
Didn't you say you hate crowded places?
I freeze.
I did say that.
Years ago.
Jay:
You remember that?
Keifer:
Unfortunately.
I don't know why that makes my chest tighten.
Night — Jay POV
I lie in bed, phone resting on my stomach.
Keifer:
You awake?
Jay:
Sadly.
Keifer:
Want company or silence?
I swallow.
Jay:
Silence is fine.
Keifer:
Okay.
I'm still here though.
I don't reply.
But I don't sleep either.
Keifer POV
She didn't answer.
But she didn't block me.
Didn't shut me out.
Didn't tell me to stop.
That's how I know.
She's letting me back in one breath at a time.
Jay POV — A Few Days Later
I catch myself smiling at my phone.
That's when I know I'm in trouble.
Keifer:
I passed by a place that sells those pastries you like.
I narrow my eyes.
Jay:
Are you stalking my memories now?
Keifer:
Only the important ones.
I type. Delete. Type again.
Jay:
You're annoying.
Keifer:
And yet… you keep replying.
I close my eyes.
He's right.
Jay POV — Alone
That night, I place the flowers beside my bed.
They're still alive.
So is the feeling.
The kiss replays again — not the shock anymore, but the warmth after. The way my heart stumbled, then remembered.
"I'm not over you," I admit quietly.
"I'm just scared to be."
My phone buzzes.
Keifer:
Sleep well, Jay.
I don't hesitate this time.
Jay:
You too.
And somewhere between that message and the silence that follows, I realize something terrifying and gentle all at once—
He didn't force his way back.
I let him.
I stare at my phone for longer than I should.
His last message:
Keifer:
Sleep well, Jay.
I bite my lip.
He didn't push. Didn't tease. Didn't expect me to respond.
And yet…
I type slowly.
Jay:
Can't sleep.
I almost delete it. Almost.
But I hit send anyway.
A few seconds later, my phone buzzes.
Keifer:
Trouble sleeping?
Jay:
Maybe.
Keifer:
Maybe what?
Jay:
Maybe I'm thinking about annoying people.
I smirk. My cheeks warm before I realize it.
He doesn't miss a beat.
Keifer:
Annoying people like… me?
I stare at the screen, heart stupidly racing.
Jay:
Maybe.
Keifer:
Huh. Maybe I like being annoying then.
Jay:
That's dangerous.
Keifer:
Not for me.
I roll my eyes at my phone, hiding a smile.
It's ridiculous. I know it. But it feels… nice.
Keifer POV
She texted first.
First.
After years of waiting.
I read the message three times.
Can't sleep.
My heart tightens. She's thinking of me.
I type carefully.
Trouble sleeping?
She answers cryptically.
Maybe.
Keifer:
Maybe what?
Jay:
Maybe I'm thinking about annoying people.
The corners of my lips lift.
Her teasing. It hasn't gone away.
Keifer:
Annoying people like… me?
Jay:
Maybe.
Keifer:
Huh. Maybe I like being annoying then.
Jay:
That's dangerous.
Keifer:
Not for me.
I sit back, letting the words sink in.
She's softening. She's… giving me little openings.
And I'm not letting them go.
Jay POV — Later
The messages continue, slow but steady.
Jay:
You're impossible.
Keifer:
I know. And you like it.
Jay:
I hate you.
Keifer:
You love me.
I type. Delete. Type. Delete.
Finally:
Jay:
Maybe.
My phone vibrates almost immediately.
Keifer:
Maybe what?
Jay:
Maybe I don't hate being annoyed by you.
Keifer:
That's the first step.
Jay:
Steps? I don't know if I trust you.
Keifer:
Then take the next one anyway.
I stare at the screen, my chest tight, cheeks burning.
He's dangerous. Always has been.
And somehow… I like it.
The first one arrives mid-morning.
A small box, tied with a simple ribbon, sitting neatly outside my condo door.
I frown.
Who—
I see a note tucked inside:
"For someone who needs caffeine more than she admits."
I open the box. Inside: a small thermos of coffee, exactly how I like it—warm, strong, no sugar, the way Keifer somehow remembered.
I bite back a smile.
He didn't have to.
By noon, I find myself texting him.
Jay:
You didn't have to do that.
Keifer:
I wanted to.
Jay:
I guess… thank you.
Keifer:
You're welcome. But don't make a habit of forgetting your coffee.
I glare at my phone. His teasing is infuriating, but the warmth in my chest is undeniable.
The next day, another small gesture.
A handwritten bookmark slipped under my door, one of those tiny, leather-bound ones with a quote: "Good stories need patience and the right company."
My fingers hover over my phone, typing, deleting, typing again.
Jay:
You're spoiling me.
Keifer:
Someone has to.
Jay:
I can manage.
Keifer:
Maybe. But maybe I like seeing you smile.
I drop onto my bed, the bookmark in my hand, and replay the kiss. My lips tingle, and I blush despite myself.
By the third day, it's… becoming a routine.
Keifer:
Hope your lunch is better than yesterday.
Inside my lunch bag: a tiny container of my favorite salad from the corner café.
Jay:
How do you know I hate soggy lettuce?
Keifer:
Years of observation. And maybe… I care.
My heart stumbles over the last three words.
Jay:
You're impossible.
Keifer:
And yet… you let me be.
I bite my lip, trying to act annoyed. But I'm smiling.
Evenings become the hardest.
I curl on my couch, flowers from yesterday still in the vase, phone buzzing with a simple:
Keifer:
Did you survive today?
I text back almost immediately:
Jay:
Barely.
Keifer:
I'll take that as a victory.
Jay:
Don't get used to it.
Keifer:
Too late.
I hide my grin behind my pillow.
He's not rushing me.
He's letting me see him slowly.
And in the quiet of my condo, alone with the flowers and my thoughts, I admit softly to no one:
I like this.
I like him.
I hate that I do.
It's late afternoon. I'm curled on the couch with my laptop, pretending to work, but really… I keep glancing at my phone.
Keifer:
Thought you might like a little something before dinner.
I frown.
Jay:
You didn't.
A knock at the door interrupts me.
I open it.
Keifer.
Casual, but impossible. Holding a small brown paper bag. Nothing flashy.
Keifer:
I did. Hope you're hungry.
I roll my eyes, trying to act annoyed.
Jay:
You're spoiling me.
Keifer:
You've survived worse.
Inside the bag: my favorite pastries, warm and perfectly baked. The smell hits me first.
I step aside to let him in.
Jay:
Don't make a habit of this.
Keifer:
I already did.
I hide my grin.
We sit on the couch. Not too close, not too far. He hands me a pastry. Our fingers brush. My chest flutters like it's been a long time since it remembered how to race.
Jay:
You're impossible.
Keifer:
And yet… you let me.
I freeze, mid-bite. My eyes flick to his. The words hit harder than I want to admit.
I look away, cheeks burning.
Let him… let him?
I hate that I'm thinking this.
I hate that I want to.
I hate that I can't stop smiling when he hands me a pastry.
Keifer:
You've been texting me first a lot. Trying to annoy me?
I snort, trying to mask my blush.
Jay:
Don't flatter yourself.
Keifer:
Don't lie. I see it.
I roll my eyes.
"See what?" I ask, heart thudding.
Keifer:
That you're letting me back in. More than you think.
I freeze. That hits too close.
I look down at my pastry, cheeks red.
Jay:
I… don't know what you mean.
He leans slightly closer, just enough to notice the warmth in my chest.
Keifer:
Oh, I think you do.
I glance at him, caught. My defenses wobble.
I am letting him in. More than I want to admit.
Jay:
You're lucky I like pastries.
Keifer:
I know. And I plan to use that to my advantage.
I try to act stern.
Jay:
You're impossible.
Keifer:
And yet… you keep smiling.
I drop my head back on the couch, hiding my face.
He chuckles softly. That sound, that laugh, digs into my chest like it knows where I'm weak.
I like this.
I like him.
I hate that I do.
But I don't stop him.
I don't push him away.
And for the first time since I came back, I admit quietly to myself:
I'm letting him in.