Keifer didn't arrive loudly into Jay's life.
He didn't demand space in it.
He simply… stayed.
She began visiting the café more often—not because she was looking for him, but because she knew he might be there. And when he was, he never acted like her presence was something to claim. He just looked up from his book, smiled softly, and asked, "Tea or coffee today?"
Some days, they barely spoke.
Keifer would read. Jay would sit across from him, scribbling in a notebook or watching people pass by the window. Silence existed between them, but it wasn't heavy. It didn't ask her to fill it. It didn't judge her for being quiet.
It held her.
Once, Jay realized she was laughing.
It startled her so much she stopped mid-sound, her hand flying to her mouth. Keifer looked up—not amused, not curious—just attentive.
"Sorry," she said quickly, habit returning. "I—"
"You don't have to apologize," he said gently.
The words landed somewhere deep.
She nodded, swallowing. "I forget that sometimes."
Keifer didn't ask why.
That mattered more than she could explain.
He noticed the small things. That Jay liked sitting near the window. That she stirred her tea absentmindedly when she was thinking too hard. That she tensed when voices got loud. When he noticed, he adjusted—lowered his voice, shifted topics, changed nothing about her.
No one had ever done that for her.
One evening, it began to rain suddenly, heavy and relentless. Jay stood outside the café, hesitating, her shawl thin, her bag light.
Keifer appeared beside her without a word and held out an umbrella.
"You'll catch a cold," he said simply.
She took it, fingers brushing his accidentally. She flinched out of instinct—and hated herself for it.
Keifer noticed. He didn't comment. He just stepped back, giving her space like it was natural.
"I can walk you home," he offered. "Only if you're comfortable."
Jay looked up at him. Really looked.
There was no expectation in his eyes. No disappointment waiting to happen.
"Yes," she said softly. "I'd like that."
They walked slowly, rain tapping against the umbrella like a rhythm neither of them tried to break. Keifer matched her pace without thinking. When she stopped to admire a plant glistening with rain, he stopped too.
At her gate, Jay hesitated.
"Thank you," she said. "For… today."
"For today?" he asked gently.
She nodded. "And the other quiet days too."
Keifer smiled, something warm and steady. "Anytime, Jay. You don't owe me anything for being here."
That night, Jay lay in bed and felt something unfamiliar settle in her chest.
Safety.
Not excitement.
Not longing.
Not love.
Just the calm certainty that someone existed in the world who would not hurt her—intentionally or carelessly.
She still thought of Jax sometimes. The mansion. The silence. But those thoughts no longer crushed her. They felt distant. Manageable.
Because now, when the world felt too big, Jay knew there was a small café, a quiet table, and a man who listened without asking her to become someone else.
And somewhere deep inside her, a fragile part she thought was gone whispered:
Maybe this is what it feels like to be treated gently.