Life didn't slow down—but it softened.
Mornings began to feel the same in the best way. Jay would wake before her alarm most days, not because of stress, but because the house felt awake with her. Sunlight crept in through the curtains, the city humming faintly outside, and somewhere nearby Keifer would already be moving—quiet, unhurried.
She found him in the kitchen more often than not, sleeves rolled up, focused on something simple. Tea steeping. Breakfast halfway done.
"You know," she said one morning, leaning against the doorway, "you're setting unrealistic expectations for humanity."
He didn't even look up. "Good morning to you too."
Jay walked over and sat on the counter. "I'm serious. This calm? This care? It's illegal."
Keifer smiled to himself. "Drink your tea."
At work, the rhythm held.
Meetings were productive. Conversations were easy. There was no tension to manage, no pretending. They moved around each other naturally—professional, respectful, and quietly aligned.
People noticed, but no one questioned it anymore.
One evening, after a long day, Jay curled up on the couch with a book she wasn't really reading. Keifer sat beside her, massaging her shoulders absentmindedly, his touch slow and grounding.
"You ever think about how strange this is?" she asked.
"What?"
"How peaceful it feels," she said. "I used to think love had to be loud to be real."
Keifer's hands paused for just a second, then continued. "And now?"
"Now I think this is the loudest thing I've ever felt."
He leaned down and rested his forehead against hers. "I like this life with you."
Jay smiled softly. "Me too."
Nothing dramatic happened that night.
No conflict.
No fear.
Just two people choosing each other again, quietly.
And it was more than enough.
The pressure returned without warning.
A new client. Higher stakes. Tight timelines. The kind of responsibility that didn't announce itself as a problem until it was already heavy.
Jay felt it first.
She grew quieter again—not distant, just focused too hard. She stayed late, skipped meals, told herself she was fine.
Keifer noticed.
One evening, as they sat reviewing files, he closed his laptop gently. "That's enough."
Jay blinked. "I still have—"
"You're exhausted," he said calmly. "And you don't need to prove anything."
She sighed, frustration leaking through. "I don't want people thinking I'm here because of you."
Keifer met her eyes. "You're here because you're capable. And anyone who thinks otherwise doesn't know you."
The real test came days later.
A senior client made an offhand comment—polite on the surface, pointed underneath—about boundaries and professionalism.
Jay felt the familiar knot tighten in her chest.
Keifer responded before it could grow.
Clear. Measured. Firm.
He redirected the conversation without embarrassment or anger, protecting the work—and her dignity—without turning it into a spectacle.
After the meeting, Jay exhaled shakily. "That could've gone badly."
"It didn't," he said. "Because we handled it honestly."
She looked at him. "You weren't afraid it would complicate things?"
Keifer shook his head. "I'm not afraid of doing the right thing."
That night, Jay sat beside him, quieter than usual.
"When I was with Jax," she said softly, "I always felt invisible when things got hard."
Keifer reached for her hand. "You're not invisible here."
"That's why I fell so hard," she admitted. "You stay."
He squeezed her fingers. "So do you."
The test didn't pull them apart.
It showed them—clearly—that what they had wasn't fragile.
It was steady because they made it so.