Jay POV
The second his lips leave mine, my brain stops working.
That's dangerous.
I step back too fast, my heel almost slipping, my hand flying to my mouth like that might undo what just happened. My face feels hot. Embarrassingly hot.
I hate that he notices.
Keifer doesn't move. He just watches me—eyes dark, calm, way too sure of himself.
"What the hell was that?" I snap.
My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to.
He tilts his head slightly, like he's studying a puzzle he already knows the answer to. A faint smile tugs at his lips—not smug, not playful. Certain.
"A kiss," he says simply.
I scoff, crossing my arms tightly. "Don't act dumb."
"I'm not," he replies. His gaze flicks to my cheeks. "You're blushing."
"I am not."
"You are."
I glare at him. "You don't get to do that."
"Do what?"
"Kiss me like that. Like—" I stop myself, annoyed. "Like nothing happened."
He steps closer. Just one step. Close enough that I can smell him again, and my heart immediately betrays me.
"I didn't kiss you like nothing happened," he says quietly. "I kissed you like everything did."
That makes my stomach flip.
I turn away quickly, gripping the balcony railing, pretending the city lights are more interesting than the man who just proved I'm not as unaffected as I pretend to be.
"You think that meant something?" I say, forcing a laugh. "Don't flatter yourself."
Behind me, he exhales—slow, almost amused.
"Jay," he says, low. "If it didn't mean anything, you wouldn't be this mad."
I hate that he's right.
I spin back around. "You're so full of yourself."
"And you're terrible at lying," he shoots back.
My cheeks burn harder. Traitorous.
For a second, we just stare at each other. The air feels thick. Charged. Like one wrong word will snap everything.
He breaks first—but not by apologizing.
He steps back.
Not retreating. Choosing.
"Relax," he says, tone light now. "I'm not asking you to run back to me."
"Good," I mutter.
"But don't pretend you didn't feel it," he adds.
I open my mouth to deny it—then close it again.
Because he's watching me too closely. Because my body already gave me away.
I turn toward the door. "I'm going inside."
He nods. "Go."
No guilt. No pressure.
As I reach the door, his voice stops me again.
"You haven't moved on," he says—not accusing, not begging. Just stating a fact.
I don't turn around. "You don't know that."
He smiles. I can hear it in his voice.
"I do."
I walk away before he can see how badly my hands are shaking.
I lock the door behind me and lean my forehead against it like I've just run a marathon.
Stupid.
I slide down until I'm sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest, dress wrinkling under me. The condo is silent—too silent. Mira isn't home. No distractions. No noise.
Just my thoughts.
And his mouth.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
It wasn't supposed to happen like that. It wasn't supposed to happen at all. I had rehearsed this version of myself for years—the one who could look at Keifer Watson and feel nothing but distance.
That version of me didn't melt.
I press my fingers against my lips like they're burning.
The kiss wasn't rough. That's the problem.
It was slow. Familiar. Like he knew exactly how long to wait before pulling back. Like he remembered me.
I groan softly and let my head fall back against the wall.
I hate that my body responded before my mind could stop it. Hate that my heart skipped like it used to. Hate that my first instinct afterward wasn't anger—but panic.
Because panic means something mattered.
I stand up abruptly and walk to the mirror, staring at my reflection like it might explain me to myself.
My cheeks are still pink.
Unbelievable.
"Get it together," I whisper.
Eight years. Eight years of distance, of rebuilding, of turning myself into someone untouchable. And one kiss nearly cracks the foundation.
I think of the way he looked at me after—no apology, no guilt. Just that calm certainty, like he'd seen through every wall I put up.
Like he knew I wasn't done.
I turn away from the mirror and pace the room, arms wrapped around myself.
I didn't stop him fast enough.
That's what scares me.
Because if I'm honest—if I let myself admit the thing I've buried for years—
I wanted to know what it would feel like.
And now I do.
I crawl into bed fully dressed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment against my will. The way the world narrowed. The way everything else faded.
I don't fall asleep for a long time.
And when I finally do, he's there.
Keifer POV
I don't go back inside.
I stay on the balcony long after she leaves, hands resting on the railing, staring at the glass door like it might open again.
It doesn't.
But I don't feel stupid.
That's new.
I close my eyes and replay the second before she kissed me back—because she did. Just for a heartbeat. Long enough to matter.
Long enough to tell me everything.
She can glare. She can snap. She can pretend she hated it.
But her body didn't lie.
I run a hand through my hair and let out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and disbelief.
She's still here.
Not physically. Not openly.
But she's not gone.
If she had moved on, she would've slapped me. Pushed me. Walked away untouched.
Instead, she froze.
Instead, she blushed.
Instead, she looked scared—not of me, but of herself.
That's not indifference. That's conflict.
Hope settles in my chest slowly, carefully, like something fragile I don't want to scare away.
I'm not naïve enough to think one kiss fixes eight years. I know better than that. I know how deep her walls go. I helped build some of them.
But tonight proved something important.
I didn't imagine us.
What we had wasn't erased. It was paused.
I straighten, resolve settling in.
I won't rush her. Won't corner her again—not like before. If she needs time, I'll give it. If she needs space, I'll respect it.
But I won't disappear.
Because now I know—
she still feels it.
And as long as that's true—
I have a chance.