It started with a flower.
A single pale pink rose, slipped under my office door with a note in Keifer's neat handwriting:
"For the girl who always gets my attention, even when she doesn't want it."
I stared at it longer than I should have.
Why did it matter so much?
I rolled my eyes at the message, but my fingers lingered over the note, tracing the words like I was trying to memorize them.
The next morning, my phone buzzed while I was still in bed.
Keifer: Morning. I left a little something for you downstairs.
I groaned.
Jay: I don't need anything.
Keifer: I know. But I want you to have it anyway.
Five minutes later, a small bag appeared outside my door. Inside: a cup of my favorite tea, a chocolate croissant, and a tiny bookmark with a quote I'd mentioned months ago about not letting fear stop me.
I stared at it.
He remembered.
My chest warmed despite my protests.
By the third day, I found myself typing him messages without thinking:
Jay: You're going too far.
Keifer: Too far? Or just right?
I glared at the screen, even though he wasn't there.
Jay: Stop making me smile at my phone like an idiot.
Keifer: Can't promise that.
And somehow, I didn't want him to.
Then came the accidental brushing.
I was leaving my office for lunch when I almost collided with someone in the lobby. Of course it was him.
"Careful," he said. Calm, casual.
"Don't sneak up on people," I muttered.
"Not sneaking," he replied, letting our hands brush just barely on the sleeve.
My heart stuttered.
Great. Completely normal. Totally fine.
I walked past him and almost tripped over my own feet.
He started leaving notes and small gifts in random places:
A little sketch of a city skyline I'd mentioned loving
A packet of rare tea
A tiny toy cat he claimed reminded him of me
Every time, I tried to act unimpressed.
Every time, my chest betrayed me.
By Friday, the chaos was undeniable.
We met by chance in the elevator, both leaving at the same time.
"You're relentless," I muttered.
"I prefer consistent," he corrected, giving me that infuriating smirk.
"You're ridiculous," I said, shaking my head.
"And you like it," he countered quietly.
I froze.
"You—" I started, then stopped.
He just leaned slightly closer, not enough to touch, not enough to claim, just enough to make me aware of every inch between us.
That night, I replayed the day in my head:
The rose.
The tea.
The tiny sketch.
The almost-touch.
The texts that made me smile like an idiot.
I hated it. And yet… I couldn't stop thinking about him.
I'm letting him back in.
Not completely. Not yet. But… more than I wanted to admit.
And as I stared at my phone again, I realized with a flush I'd been waiting for his messages every day—checking, rereading, smiling despite myself.
Little things. Big feelings.
And the quiet, escalating chaos of him invading my life?
I was letting it happen.