ᕙ༼Keifer's༽ᕗPOV
The sun hasn't even fully cleared the horizon when I feel her body start to rigidify in my arms. The peaceful rhythm of her breathing hitches, turning into sharp, jagged gasps. Before I can even whisper her name, the floodgates open.
Jay Jay isn't just crying, she's sobbing, her lungs working like she's fighting for air, her hands clutching at the sheets as she realizes she's stripped down to her skin.
"Keifer!" she wails, her voice thick and raw. She tries to scramble back, but her legs are still tangled with mine, trapping her against my chest. "Why would you do that? Why did you take them off?"
"Jay, hey, look at me," I mutter, trying to catch her hands before she scratches at her own skin.
"I'm going to ruin everything!" she cries, a fresh wave of tears soaking into my collarbone. "I'm a mess, Keifer. I'm bleeding, I'm leaking, I'm... I'm disgusting right now. What if I stain the bed? What if I stain your clothes?" She looks at me with pure, panicked eyes, the 'Titan' completely shattered. "You're wearing one of your favorite shirts and I'm going to ruin it with my mess!"
I don't pull away. In fact, I wrap my arms tighter around her, pinning her safely against my heartbeat until she has no choice but to hear how steady I am. I wait for the worst of the sob to pass before I tilt her chin up.
"Is that what you're worried about? A shirt?" I let out a soft, breathy laugh, wiping a stray tear with my thumb. "Jay Jay, look at me. If you stain this shirt, I'm never throwing it away. I'll keep it forever."
She blinks, her lashes wet and clumped together. "That's... that's gross. It's ruined."
"No," I murmur, kissing her forehead. "It's not ruined. To me, that stain would just be a reminder of the night my wifey finally let go of the world and let me carry her. I would value a shirt stained by you more than any billion-dollar designer dress in your closet. Those dresses are for the 'Boss.' This mess? This is just you. And I love every bit of it."
She let out a long, shaky breath, her forehead dropping against my chest as the panic started to ebb away.
"You're an idiot," she whispered, though her hands finally stopped clawing at the sheets and settled over my heart.
"Maybe," I said, rubbing her back. "But I'm your idiot. Now, do you want to keep crying, or can I go get you some tea and a fresh heating pad?"
I start to shift, thinking I should probably get up and start some breakfast for our hungry toddler—I can already hear the little one stirring in the nursery—but the second I move, Jay's grip tightens. Her fingers dig into my biceps, and she pulls me back down, burying her face in my chest.
"Don't," she mumbles, her voice still cracked from crying. "Stay."
So, I stay. The toddler can wait five more minutes. I end up just lying there, propped up on one elbow, staring at her while she finally tries to eat the small snack I had left on the nightstand.
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I can't help it. I can't take my eyes off her. Even with her hair a bird's nest and her eyes puffy, she's the most captivating thing I've ever seen. She's eating slowly, looking small and fragile against the pillows, and I'm hit with this wave of protectiveness that almost makes my chest ache.
But then, I see her flinch.
Her face contorts into a sharp wince, and she quickly reaches up, pressing her hand firmly against the side of her breast. She lets out a hissed breath through her teeth, her body curling inward as she tries to massage the ache away.
My heart drops. I know that look—it's that deep, throbbing hormonal pain that comes with everything else she's dealing with.
"Jay?" I murmur, reaching out to cover her hand with mine. "Is it your chest? Are they hurting that bad?"
She nods eyes tightly shut, her fingers still pressing hard against the side to try and dull the pressure. "It's like... everything hurts, Keifer. Even just breathing moves them too much."
I move closer, gently pulling her back against me so she doesn't have to hold herself up. "I've got you. Let me help."
"Move your hand, Jay," I whisper, my voice dropping into that low, soothing tone that usually calms her down.
She hesitates for a second, looking at me with those vulnerable, glass-like eyes, before she finally lets her arm drop. I slide my hand in, my palm warm against the side of her breast where she was just clutching. I don't use any pressure at first; I just let the heat of my skin sink into her.
As she goes back to her food, I start a slow, circular massage, moving with the lightest touch possible. I can feel the tension in her chest muscles, the way her body is coiled tight like a spring. Every time she swallows a bite of toast, I adjust my rhythm, making sure I'm not jarring her.
"Better?" I ask, my eyes never leaving her face.
She lets out a long, shaky exhale, her shoulders finally dropping an inch. "A little. It just feels so heavy... and sharp."
"I know, baby. Just eat. I'm not going anywhere."
I keep it up for a few minutes, watching the way her jaw relaxes as the gentle friction starts to dull the ache. But I can tell it's deep—the kind of inflammation that a hand massage can't fully reach. Once she sets the plate down, looking a little more human but still pale, I kiss her temple.
"Stay right here. Don't move an inch," I command softly.
I slip out of bed—ignoring the cold air hitting my skin—and head for the bathroom. I grab a clean cloth and run it under the tap until the water is steaming, just shy of being too hot. I wring it out and rush back before the heat can escape.
I slide back into my spot, pulling her flush against my chest again. I carefully tuck the warm compress against her side, right where the pain is peaking.
"Oh..." she moans, a sound of pure relief, as she leans her entire weight into the heat. She closes her eyes, her head falling back against my shoulder.
"There we go," I murmur, wrapping my arm over the cloth to hold it steady against her. "Just let the heat do the work. The toddler is occupied with his toys for a second; you just focus on feeling better."
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I stand corrected—the "Titan" doesn't have a successor yet. I'm sitting in our home office, the light dim, looking like a stone-cold statue as I stare down the board members on the screen. My expression is unreadable, my voice clipped and professional. I'm playing the part of the ruthless protector, making sure no one tries to take advantage of Jay Jay's absence.
The VP of Sales is stuttering through a report when the heavy oak door behind me clicks open.
I don't turn around. I keep my icy gaze fixed on the camera. But then I hear it—the soft, rhythmic thump-thump of bare feet on the hardwood.
Jay Jay appears in the frame.
She doesn't look like the CEO they fear. She's wearing nothing but my oversized black hoodie, which swallowed her petite frame, and her hair is a messy, beautiful disaster. Her eyes are still half-closed, heavy with sleep, and she's clutching a small plush panda to her chest—a relic from her childhood she only grabs when she's feeling truly vulnerable.
She doesn't even look at the computer screen. She walks straight to my chair, her movements fluid and instinctive. Without a word, she climbs onto my lap, tucking her head under my chin and curling her legs around my waist, just like she did in bed. She lets out a tiny, contented sigh, her breath warm against my neck as she settles in to finish her nap on me.
I don't flinch. I don't apologize. I don't even look down at her.
I simply reach one hand around her waist to hold her steady and rest my other hand on her head, my fingers tangling in her messy hair. I stare back at the stunned faces on the screen, my expression more terrifyingly cold than before.
"As I was saying," I murmur, my voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates through Jay's body. "The projections for the third quarter are unacceptable. Fix them. Now."
The board members scramble to nod, terrified of the man who can hold a sleeping woman so tenderly while sounding like he's ready to start a war.