Jay-Jay POV
I walked through the front door like I'd just come back from war.
Because, honestly? Living in the Watson house for a week was basically combat training — emotional, physical, and psychological. I survived glitter bombs, pancake warfare, and Kieran's attempt to build a catapult out of soda cans. I survived Kegain narrating my every move like I was a contestant on a reality show. I survived Keifer's recovery.
And somehow… I didn't just survive. I fell.
Hard.
Jare looked up from the couch as I dropped my bag with a dramatic thud.
"How is he?" he asked, eyes still half-glued to the screen.
I collapsed onto the armrest like gravity had tripled. "Keifer? Same as always. Stubborn. Dramatic. But he recovered."
Jare raised an eyebrow. "Good. Now go and rest. You look like a zombie."
I rolled my eyes. "Thanks for the support."
"Anytime," he said, already turning back to his show like I hadn't just lived through a week of emotional warfare.
I dragged myself to my room, peeled off my hoodie, and took the longest shower of my life. When I finally flopped onto my bed, I didn't even bother with pajamas — just wrapped myself in a blanket burrito and started scrolling through my phone like a zombie with Wi-Fi.
That's when the text came in.
From Keifer 💖💖 Jay, I want to take you on a date.
I blinked. Sat up. Re-read it three times.
A date. Not a hangout. Not a "let's talk." A date.
To Keifer 💖💖 Sure. Tell me where we're going.
From Keifer 💖💖 Somewhere special. Wear comfortable clothes.
To Keifer 💖💖 Fine. What time?
From Keifer 💖💖 Today at 7 p.m. I already asked your brother. He said yes.
I stared at the screen.
He asked Jare. He planned something. He wanted me.
To Keifer 💖💖 Bye.
From Keifer 💖💖 Bye, wifey.
And that was it.
That one word.
Wifey.
Why does he do that? Why does he say it so casually, like it's just a joke, like it doesn't make my heart do gymnastics?
Every time he calls me that, I blush like crazy. Every time, I pretend it doesn't affect me. And every time, it does.
I buried my face in my pillow and screamed into it.
I checked the time. It was 3 p.m.
I still had four hours.
So I did the only logical thing: I slept.
When I woke up, it was 6 p.m.
I sat up, heart pounding like I was about to take an exam I hadn't studied for. I opened my closet, stared at my clothes like they were mocking me, and whispered, "Comfortable but cute. Comfortable but cute."
I pulled out my favorite jeans, a soft sweater, and the necklace Keifer gave me last year — the one I never wear because it makes me feel too much.
Tonight, I wanted to feel everything.
I stood at the door, clutching my phone like it was a lifeline.
Jare and Luna were on the couch, mid-argument about which movie to watch. I cleared my throat.
"I'm heading out," I said.
Jare looked up. "With Keifer?"
I nodded.
He gave me a long look, then sighed. "Be safe. Don't let him lift anything stupid."
Luna waved. "Take pictures!"
I rolled my eyes. "It's a date, not a documentary."
They both waved as I stepped out the door.
It was exactly 7 p.m.
Keifer was already there.
Leaning against the railing like he was auditioning for a slow-motion entrance in a teen drama. The streetlight hit him just right — soft glow, sharp jawline, and that stupid blue shirt that made his eyes look criminal. Baggy pants. Messy hair. Hands in his pockets like he didn't know he was the reason I was about to combust.
I froze.
Why, God. Why did you create him so hot?
It wasn't fair. I was just a girl trying to survive the evening without melting into a puddle of romantic goo. And he was standing there like a walking heart attack.
He looked up and smiled — slow, warm, devastating.
"Hey," he said.
I blinked. "Hi."
"You look beautiful."
I wanted to say something witty. Something cool. Something that didn't sound like I'd forgotten how words worked.
Instead, I said, "You look like a problem."
He laughed. "A good one?"
I nodded. "The worst kind."
He held out his hand. "Ready?"
I took it.
And just like that, the night began.
I slid into the passenger seat of Keifer's car, heart thudding like it was trying to escape my chest.
He closed the door, turned to me, and before I could say a word — he kissed me.
No warning. No hesitation. Just his lips on mine, soft and certain, like he'd been waiting all day and couldn't hold back anymore.
I kissed him back.
Because of course I did.
Because I'd been waiting too.
The kiss deepened, slow and warm and dizzying. My fingers curled into the fabric of his stupid blue shirt, and his hand found my cheek like it belonged there.
We only broke apart when we were breathless.
He leaned back, eyes dark, lips curved into that dangerous smile.
"Don't put lip gloss on," he said, voice low. "It tempts me to taste your lips and ruin you."
I stared at him.
Then smacked his shoulder, cheeks burning. "You're insane."
He laughed, completely unbothered. "You love it."
I crossed my arms, trying to look unaffected. "Where are we going?"
"A peaceful place," he replied, still smiling.
I didn't ask for details.
I just watched him drive, the city lights blurring past the window, and wondered how someone so chaotic could make me feel so calm.