don't put the flowers in water right away.
They sit on my kitchen counter, still wrapped in that stupid brown paper, leaning slightly like they're waiting for permission. White petals. Clean. Uncomplicated. The kind of flowers people buy when they don't want to overwhelm you.
Typical Keifer.
I kick off my heels and drop my bag on the chair, my apartment falling into its usual quiet. No staff. No calls. No meetings. Just me and the sound of my own breathing—which feels louder than it should.
I glance at the flowers again.
I should've left them at Starbucks.
I didn't.
I move around them instead, pouring myself a glass of water, pretending they're not there, pretending my heart didn't stutter when he held them out like it mattered whether I accepted or not.
I finally grab a vase. Clear. Simple. I unwrap the flowers carefully, fingers brushing the stems, and trim them like I know what I'm doing.
I don't.
When I place them on the table, they look… out of place. Like something soft in a life built to be sharp.
I stare at them longer than necessary.
Then—like my brain hates peace—it happens.
The memory hits.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Quiet.
His hand at my waist. Warm. Certain. The way his thumb pressed in slightly, like muscle memory never left him. The brief hesitation before he leaned in—so small I barely noticed it then, but now it replays in perfect clarity.
He didn't ask.
But he didn't rush either.
I sink onto the couch, the image unfolding against my will.
The music inside. The air outside. The way the night smelled like perfume and something electric. I remember how my body froze for half a second—not because I didn't want it, but because I did.
Too much.
I remember his lips.
God.
Not desperate. Not rough. Controlled—but not careful. Like he already knew how I'd respond, like he wasn't guessing.
I press my fingers to my mouth.
I didn't pull away.
That's the part I keep circling.
I should've.
Instead, my body leaned in before my mind caught up. My heart betraying me like it always does when it comes to him.
My cheeks burn just thinking about it.
"Idiot," I whisper—to myself, to the memory, to him.
I'd acted annoyed. Cold. Like I didn't feel the way my pulse jumped, like my breath didn't hitch when he pulled back just enough to look at me.
As if he hadn't seen it.
He saw it.
He always sees it.
I stand up abruptly, pacing the room, trying to shake the feeling off. But it follows me—warm and persistent.
I hated that he knew.
Hated that some part of him probably walked away thinking—
She still feels it.
I stop near the table again.
The flowers don't judge me.
They just exist. Quiet proof that he didn't push after. That he stepped back when I needed space. That he didn't text. Didn't call. Didn't force himself into my world like he used to.
That's what unsettles me the most.
Because old Keifer would've chased.
This one waited.
I sit back down, slower this time, and let myself breathe.
"Doesn't mean anything," I tell the empty room.
The words sound weak.
I close my eyes.
And for one dangerous second, I let myself admit the truth—just here, just now, where no one can hear it.
The kiss didn't feel wrong.
It felt familiar.
And that scares me more than anything.
Because no matter how many years passed, no matter how much distance I put between us—
My body remembered him.
My heart did too.
I open my eyes and look at the flowers again.
Still here.
Still beautiful.
Still impossible to ignore.
And for the first time since he stepped back into my life, I don't throw the memory away.
I let it stay.
Just for tonight.
Keifer POV
I don't sleep.
Not because I'm restless—because my mind won't shut up.
I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling of my condo, hands folded behind my head like that might stop the thoughts from spilling everywhere. It doesn't work.
Her face keeps replaying instead.
Not angry. Not cold.
Flushed.
She tried to hide it. God, she really did. Chin lifted, voice steady, eyes refusing to meet mine—but I know that blush. I know the way her breath changes when she's affected and pretending she's not.
She liked it.
That realization settles into my chest, slow and dangerous.
"She hasn't moved on," I murmur to the dark.
Or maybe the truth is worse.
Neither have I.
I turn my head toward the wall that separates our condos. Next door. So close it feels like a bad joke. Eight years apart, and now fate decides to put her right there.
I didn't text her.
Didn't call.
I could've found her number in minutes—my name still opens doors—but something stopped me.
I want it to be her choice.
I want her to give it to me.
The kiss wasn't permission. I know that. But it wasn't rejection either. And for the first time since she came back, hope doesn't feel like a stupid thing.
It feels… earned.
I close my eyes, the ghost of her warmth still on my lips.
She blushed, I think again, a faint smile tugging at my mouth.
Yeah.
She's not done with me.
Jay POV — Morning
The morning light creeps in too gently for someone who barely slept.
I wake up curled on my side, staring at nothing for a long moment, my mind sluggish and warm. For half a second, everything feels normal.
Then I remember.
The kiss.
The flowers.
Him.
I sit up too fast, heart thudding, and my gaze immediately snaps to the table.
They're still there.
Fresh. Bright. Real.
I groan softly and drop my face into my hands. "Get it together," I mumble.
After a shower and minimal effort to look presentable—because I refuse to dress for him—I grab my keys and step out into the hallway.
And freeze.
Keifer is there.
Not leaning dramatically. Not blocking my way. Just… standing near the elevator, phone in hand, dressed casually like he didn't spend the night haunting my thoughts.
When he looks up and sees me, something in his expression softens instantly.
"Morning," he says.
No teasing. No intensity.
Just… warm.
"Morning," I reply, careful, neutral.
We stand there for a beat that shouldn't feel charged—but does.
His eyes flick briefly to my door. "The flowers… you didn't throw them away."
I hate that my cheeks warm again.
"They're flowers," I say. "That would be wasteful."
His lips curve. Not a smirk. A real smile.
"I'll take that as a win."
I roll my eyes, but it's weak. "Don't."
The elevator dings.
As we step inside, our shoulders almost touch.
Almost.
And somehow, that's worse.
He doesn't push. Doesn't mention the kiss. Doesn't ask questions he already knows the answers to. He just stands there beside me like this is… normal.
Like we're okay.
When the doors open, I move to leave—but his voice stops me.
"Jay."
I turn.
He hesitates. Just a fraction. Then, softly, "Have a good day."
I nod. "You too."
I walk away before my heart can betray me again—but I feel his gaze on my back until I turn the corner.
And annoyingly—
I'm smiling.
Just a little.