Jay-Jay's POV
The city hummed below SE Corp's towering glass walls, a living pulse of ambition and calculated order. I straightened my blazer for the third time in ten minutes, telling myself it was merely a formality, a shield against any disruption the day might hold. My schedule was tight — board reports, investment analyses, strategic reviews — each one demanding flawless precision.
And yet, the faint echo of a voice I'd spent years trying to forget pressed against the edges of my mind.
I had managed to contain it all week, burying it under schedules and spreadsheets, under smiles and greetings that never quite reached my eyes. I thought I had mastered it, that I had kept the past locked away in a compartment labeled don't touch. But the universe, as it always seemed to, had other plans.
A subtle movement at the entrance of the executive floor caught my eye. At first, I assumed it was an employee, someone delivering documents or seeking approval. But the way the light glinted off polished shoes, the slow, deliberate step that carried an unmistakable weight of confidence…
I froze, heart hitching involuntarily.
"Keifer," I breathed under my own control, as if saying the name aloud might shatter the illusion that he wasn't really here.
He was there — tall, composed, a presence that filled the room before he even spoke. Mark Keifer Watson, just as I remembered: careful in his movements, precise in his observations, but with that teasing, infuriating spark in his eyes that had haunted so many of my memories.
The office felt suddenly smaller. My carefully maintained calm teetered on the edge of unraveling. I busied myself with a stack of reports, pretending the trembling in my hands was merely the result of caffeine overload.
"Jay-Jay," he said, voice low, measured, carrying that familiar undertone of mischief, "I hope I'm not intruding."
I looked up, catching the faintest curve at the edge of his lips — not quite a smile, but enough to remind me of seventeen-year-old afternoons, of birthdays and stolen moments, of laughter that had once echoed in empty classrooms.
"Keifer," I said, voice steadier than I felt. "You… you weren't expected."
His gaze softened slightly, though the teasing lingered in the depth of his brown eyes. He stepped closer, surveying the office with a deliberate, slow precision that seemed to mark every corner, every object as familiar territory he was quietly reclaiming.
"I could say the same about you," he murmured, but it wasn't a challenge. It was a statement, quiet and firm, acknowledging the life I had built, yet asserting the right he still seemed to hold over a part of me I didn't even realize was exposed.
I swallowed, regaining some semblance of professional posture. "I'm… well, you know. Busy."
"Busy," he echoed, almost as if tasting the word, examining its layers. "I imagine running an empire leaves little time for distractions… or memories." His eyes softened again, and for a moment, the office lights dimmed in comparison to the weight of his presence.
I wanted to retreat, to run back into the safety of reports and structured plans. Yet part of me, a stubborn, reckless part I had spent years taming, longed to close the distance between us, to let some fragment of the past breathe openly.
"I… don't know what you mean," I said lightly, a smile tugging at my lips despite my better judgment.
He tilted his head, a playful glint appearing, subtle but undeniable. "I think you know exactly what I mean, Jay-Jay."
And just like that, the room shifted, the air charged with years of unspoken words and lingering emotions.
Keifer's POV
From the moment I had set foot on the SE Corp floor, I had been measuring, calculating, and waiting. Not for a business opportunity — though there were always calculations to make — but for her. Jay-Jay. The girl I had known, the woman she had become. She was here, in her element, commanding her empire with precision, and yet…
And yet, there was a subtle tremor in her composure, something only years of observation could reveal. I didn't need to approach to know she had felt me before I spoke, before she even looked up. The echo of my presence, faint but insistent, had already reached her.
I waited, letting her orchestrate the initial acknowledgment. Watching her straighten her blazer, her hands adjusting papers that were already perfectly aligned, was a reminder of why she had always captivated me — her focus, her poise, her unyielding will.
But there was more. A warmth, a crack beneath the surface, a vulnerability she refused to name. That was the Jay-Jay I remembered, the one I had teased endlessly, the one who had teased me right back, the one whose laughter could undo all reason.
And I had to see her, had to confront the years of distance, the half-finished confessions, the promises suspended in time. Standing there, letting her realize I was here, was my way of bridging that space.
I wasn't about to push too hard. Not yet. The timing had to be right. Let her come to the realization herself — let her feel the pull, the ache, the memory of every moment we had lost and every one we had shared.
Her eyes met mine finally, a flash of recognition, and I allowed the faintest curve to touch my lips. "I've found you again," I thought silently, even if the words remained unspoken for now.
Jay-Jay's POV
He had always known how to catch me off guard. Every glance, every shift in tone, every subtle movement seemed meticulously designed to undo all composure I had worked so hard to maintain.
I gripped the edge of my desk, telling myself it was professional posture, just a reflex. But my mind wandered, as it always did when he was near, to memories I had tucked away: the seventeen-year-old girl laughing with him on her birthday, the stolen glances, the small touches that had once meant everything.
I reminded myself that this was the present, that this was business. Yet my heart betrayed me, skipping a beat at the faintest sound of his voice. Even now, even after years, even after everything we had left unsaid, the pull remained undeniable.
He wasn't here to intrude on my life — not really. He was here to remind me that some parts of the past, no matter how tightly we lock them away, have a way of finding us. And perhaps… some parts of the present are meant to be shared, too.
I straightened, breath even, heart pounding in a rhythm I didn't entirely recognize as my own. "Welcome to SE Corp," I said, voice firm. "Now, shall we… get to work?"
And in the corner of my mind, where past and present intertwined, I allowed a quiet, unspoken hope: that this time, we might navigate both together.