was a small thing.
So small Jay almost missed it.
They were in the living room, laptops open, papers scattered, both half-working and half-distracted.
Keifer was on a call.
Jay wasn't paying attention—until she heard him say her name.
Not formally.
Not carefully.
Just—
"Jay will handle that."
She looked up.
He hadn't even asked her.
He hadn't looked at her.
He'd said it the same way he said his own name.
Natural.
Certain.
A few seconds later he ended the call and glanced at her.
"What?"
She was still staring.
"You just volunteered me," she said slowly.
He blinked.
"Oh. Sorry. Do you mind?"
Jay waited for the old feeling.
The panic.
The need to be careful.
It didn't come.
"No," she said softly.
He smiled, relieved.
"I knew you wouldn't."
She frowned.
"How?"
He leaned back into the couch.
"Because you like being needed now. Not used."
That hit gently.
Exactly where it was true.
—
That evening, they went grocery shopping.
Which was ridiculous.
Because they could have sent someone.
But Jay liked pushing the trolley.
And Keifer liked complaining about people who blocked the aisle.
She held up two boxes of cereal.
"Which one?"
He squinted seriously.
"The one with less lies on the front."
She laughed.
"You're impossible."
"And yet," he replied lightly, "married."
They ended up buying too much.
And still forgot the milk.
At the checkout, the cashier glanced at their hands.
Linked.
Easy.
Unthinking.
"Are you newly married?" she asked casually.
Jay opened her mouth.
Keifer answered first.
"Yes."
Not proudly.
Not shyly.
Just fact.
Jay felt something warm rise in her chest.
Newly.
On the drive home, she rested her elbow on the window.
"Why did you say it like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like it's… obvious."
He glanced at her briefly.
"It is."
—
Later, in the kitchen, she stood on a chair trying to reach the top shelf.
"Jay," he warned.
She stretched further.
"I can almost—"
Before she could wobble, his hands closed around her waist.
Steady.
Secure.
"I said—"
"I know," she smiled.
"But you still caught me."
He sighed quietly.
"Always."
She froze.
Turned slowly.
"You didn't even think about that word."
He looked confused.
"Which word?"
"Always."
He smiled when he understood.
"That's because I don't think of you in temporary terms."
Her chest tightened.
In the good way.
That night, when they lay side by side, Jay whispered into the dark—
"Keifer?"
"Mhm."
"I think I finally understand what being your wife means."
He turned toward her.
"And?"
She smiled softly.
"It means I don't have to prove I belong with you."
He brushed his thumb over her knuckles.
"You never did."
Jay closed her eyes.
And for the first time,
being his
didn't feel like something she had to earn.
It felt like something she was allowed to keep.