Keifer POV
She stayed the night.
After everything — the stars, the confession, the tears — she stayed.
I didn't ask. I didn't push. I just held her until her breathing slowed and her body stopped shaking.
Now she was asleep on my couch, curled up in a blanket, her face half-hidden, her breathing soft and steady.
I sat nearby, watching her like she might vanish if I blinked too long.
The girl who'd fought back. The girl who'd survived. The girl who carried a storm inside her and still managed to laugh like sunlight.
She'd told me everything.
About the men who tried to take what wasn't theirs. About the betrayal. About the blood. About the fear that still lived in her bones.
And I hadn't known what to say.
So I said nothing. I just held her. Because sometimes silence is the loudest kind of love.
She'd broken down in my arms.
Not quietly. Not politely. She shattered. And I held every piece.
Her sobs had been raw, like her body was finally letting go of something it had clutched for too long. Her hands had trembled. Her voice had cracked. And I'd felt her collapse into me like I was the only thing keeping her tethered to the present.
Maybe I was.
Now, in the soft light of morning, she looked peaceful.
Not healed. Not fixed. But resting.
And that was enough.
I reached out, brushed a strand of hair from her face, and whispered, "You're safe."
She didn't wake.
But her breathing steadied.
I leaned back, heart full and aching.
Jay wasn't just brave. She was a wildfire that refused to burn out. She was a girl who fought back and kept going. She was mine.
And I would never let her forget how powerful that was.
Jay-Jay POV
I woke slowly.
The kind of slow that comes after crying so hard your body forgets how to move.
My limbs felt heavy. My eyes swollen. My heart… quiet.
I was in a house.
Keifer's house.
Safe.
I blinked at the ceiling, trying to remember how I got here.
Then I remembered everything.
The stars. The picnic. The way I broke. The way he held me.
I turned my head and saw him.
Keifer. Sitting nearby. Watching me like I was something fragile and sacred.
His eyes met mine.
"Morning," he said softly.
I didn't speak.
I just stared at him — at the boy who didn't flinch when I told him the worst parts of my story. At the boy who held me through it. At the boy who whispered, "You're safe," like he meant it.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
He shook his head. "Don't be."
"I didn't mean to fall apart."
"You didn't fall apart," he said. "You let me in."
I blinked fast, trying not to cry again.
He moved closer, sat beside me, and took my hand.
"You're allowed to break," he said. "You're allowed to rest. You're allowed to be soft."
I swallowed hard. "I'm not used to that."
"I know," he said. "But I'll remind you. Every time."
I leaned into him, rested my head on his shoulder.
And for the first time in a long time, I let someone hold me without guilt.
Without fear.
Just love.
"We should get ready for school," Keifer murmured.
I groaned. "I don't want to go to school."
"Well, our exams are near," he said, annoyingly responsible.
"Why are you reminding me of that?" I muttered.
"Are you planning to fail?"
I narrowed my eyes. "Fine. I'll come. But only because you're annoying."
He grinned. "You love it."
I rolled my eyes and threw a pillow at him.
And just like that, the morning felt a little lighter.