Keifer couldn't explain it at first.
He kept telling himself it was nothing.
That he was just being a good friend. That Jay needed support after everything she'd been through. That he was doing what any decent person would do.
But then he caught himself looking for her.
Not in a romantic way, not at all.
Just… in a way that made his chest tighten.
He'd go to the café and glance around before ordering, like he was expecting her to be there. When she wasn't, the day suddenly felt incomplete.
It was ridiculous.
He knew that.
Keifer wasn't the type to let feelings complicate things. He didn't like mess. He didn't like drama. He didn't like the way emotions could take control and make a person act like someone else.
And yet, Jay was doing that to him without even trying.
She wasn't loud.
She wasn't demanding.
She wasn't even trying to be noticed.
She just… existed.
And the more he saw her, the more he realized how much he wanted her presence.
The moment he began to understand was simple.
It was a quiet afternoon when Jay walked into the café, looking tired. Her shoulders were slightly hunched, like the world was heavy on her. She sat down across from him without saying hello, and for a second, Keifer felt a sharp, irrational worry.
"Hey," he said softly.
Jay looked up, startled. "Oh. Hi."
He noticed the way her eyes darted away quickly, like she didn't want him to see the tiredness in them.
"Rough day?" he asked.
Jay hesitated. "Just… long."
Keifer watched her carefully. He could see it now—how she used to hide herself, how she used to make herself small, how she used to smile like it was a mask.
But now she didn't.
She sat there quietly, letting her emotions show without hiding them.
And that's when Keifer realized something he hadn't expected:
He didn't want her to shrink.
He didn't want her to hide.
He wanted to see her fully.
His heart reacted before his mind could process it.
He felt protective. Not in a possessive way, not like a man trying to claim something. Protective like someone who couldn't bear to see another person hurt.
Keifer reached out and placed his hand on the table, close to hers. Not touching, just near—like offering support without forcing it.
Jay looked at his hand. Then at him.
"Are you okay?" Keifer asked gently.
Jay blinked, surprised by the question. "I'm fine."
He didn't believe her.
"I don't believe you," he said quietly. "Not today."
Jay's eyes softened, and something like relief flashed across her face. Not because she wanted sympathy—but because someone had seen through her without judging her for it.
Keifer's chest tightened again.
He didn't know why he cared so much.
He didn't know when it started.
He only knew that he wanted to be the person she could rely on. The person who made her feel safe.
And he wanted to be more than that.
The thought hit him like a sudden wave, and he hated it for its intensity.
Keifer pushed his feelings down, forcing his mind to focus on the present. He tried to act normal, to keep things simple.
But that night, he couldn't sleep.
He replayed the day in his head, the way Jay's shoulders had dropped slightly when he didn't push her. The way her eyes had looked at him—like she was searching for something she didn't know how to ask for.
Keifer sat up in bed, his thoughts loud and relentless.
When did this happen?
He remembered the first time he met her. The way she'd looked like someone who had never been allowed to feel safe. The way she'd spoken softly, like she was always afraid of taking up space.
And now—
Now he couldn't imagine his days without her.
He realized, with a shock he didn't want to admit, that Jay had become more than a friend to him.
More than a person he cared for.
She was becoming someone he could not ignore.
Someone he wanted.
And that terrified him.
Because he didn't want to hurt her.
He didn't want to be another man who used her heart for comfort and left when it became inconvenient.
Keifer didn't know how to be the kind of man who loved someone properly.
But he knew he wanted to learn.
And that realization—quiet, heavy, and real—changed everything.