Keifer's POV
People think restraint is easy.
It isn't.
Not when Jay Jay is standing right in front of me, smiling like she has no idea how much power she holds.
I noticed her before she noticed me. I always do. The way her steps slow when she's tired. The way her eyes soften when she's pretending not to care. I memorize these things without meaning to.
I don't step closer.
That's the first thing I don't do.
Because if I let myself move even an inch too fast, I know I won't stop.
"Morning," she says, adjusting her bag.
"Good morning, Jay Jay," I reply, keeping my voice steady.
Inside, it's chaos.
I want to take her bag.
I want to ask if she slept well.
I want to tell her she looks different today—brighter, maybe happier.
I do none of it.
I walk beside her instead, matching her pace. Always her pace.
People watch us. I can feel it. Their stares don't bother me. What bothers me is the thought that she might feel cornered.
I would rather hurt myself than make her uncomfortable.
In class, I sit where I can see her—not beside her. If she turns around, I look away. Not because I don't want her to know.
Because I want her to choose me without pressure.
Someone laughs too loudly behind her, leaning closer than necessary. My jaw tightens. I don't intervene. Not yet.
Jay Jay handles it herself.
Pride warms my chest.
At lunch, she forgets to eat again. I place the food on the table, sliding it toward her without comment.
She looks up. "You didn't have to."
"I know."
That's my answer to everything.
Because I don't do things expecting permission. I do them because they matter.
Someone asks if we're together.
I don't rush to deny it.
I don't claim her either.
"She didn't say yes," I say instead.
That's the truth.
And the truth is enough.
During practice, she trips. The sound of her hitting the ground is quiet—but it echoes in my head like thunder. I'm moving before I think.
"I'm okay," she says quickly.
"I know," I answer, kneeling anyway.
My hands hover for half a second before touching her knee. I notice the scrape, the redness, the way she winces even though she's trying not to.
I keep my touch light.
Careful.
Controlled.
Someone jokes. Calls me whipped.
I don't care.
If devotion looks like weakness to them, they don't understand what strength really is.
Walking her home, she tells me I don't have to.
"I know," I say
.
But I still walk beside her.
What she doesn't know—what no one knows—is how much I don't do.
I don't pull her closer when she's quiet.
I don't ask who else she talks to.
I don't tell her how badly I want her to look at me and decide, It's him.
Because love that's forced isn't love.
So I wait.
I wait through the ache.
Through the jealousy.
Through the nights I replay her smile and wonder if I'm doing this wrong.
If holding back is costing me everything.
But when she glances at me—just once—and smiles without fear, without pressure, without doubt—
I know.
I would rather wait forever than take one step that makes her step back.