JAY'S POV — New Year's Night, 2:17 AM
Sleep doesn't come.
It doesn't even try.
I lie there for what feels like hours, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the day still sitting in my chest like something unfinished, something unresolved, and no matter how many times I turn, adjust, close my eyes harder—it doesn't leave.
Because everything changed.
And nothing did.
And my mind refuses to shut up about it.
So eventually—I give up.
With a quiet exhale, I push the blanket off, slipping out of bed carefully like the silence itself might break if I move too fast, my bare feet hitting the cold floor as I glance once at the door before opening it slowly.
The house is… still.
Not empty—just quiet in a way that reminds me this isn't mine yet, that every corner is unfamiliar, every shadow slightly off, and I move carefully down the stairs, one hand brushing the wall as if that'll somehow guide me.
"I just need food," I mutter under my breath, because that's easier than admitting I just needed something to ground me.
The kitchen takes me a second to find, and when I finally step into it, I pause, flicking on the dim light and blinking at the unfamiliar layout.
"Okay… cupboards… where would I hide snacks if I lived here…" I mumble, already opening the first cabinet.
Nothing.
Second one.
Glasses.
Third—
A small clatter slips out when I accidentally hit a stack of bowls, and I freeze instantly, breath catching as I look toward the doorway, heart thudding like I just committed a crime.
Silence.
No footsteps.
No movement.
I wait a few seconds longer, listening harder, and when nothing happens, I exhale slowly.
"Relax," I whisper to myself, shaking my head lightly before going back to searching, quieter now, more careful, until finally—there it is.
A packet of noodles.
"God bless," I murmur, grabbing it like I just found treasure, a small smile tugging at my lips as I close the cabinet—
And turn around.
—and stop.
Because he's there.
Leaning against the counter like he's been there long enough to watch, arms crossed loosely, dark t-shirt, hair slightly messy like he didn't bother fixing it, eyes already on me—
Not surprised.
Not confused.
Just… there.
My breath catches before I can control it.
"…Were you just standing there?" I ask, trying to sound normal, but it comes out softer than I intend.
His gaze flicks briefly to the noodles in my hand, then back to my face, one brow lifting slightly.
"Was wondering how long it would take you to find those," he says, voice low, rough with sleep but steady.
I blink.
"You knew I was here?"
"I heard you almost break my kitchen," he replies calmly.
"That was not almost breaking—"
"Sounded serious."
I scoff lightly, hugging the packet closer to my chest like I need to defend it. "I was hungry."
"At 2 AM?"
"Yes, Keifer. Humans eat at night too."
His lips twitch—just barely—but he pushes off the counter, stepping closer, and something about that movement makes my spine straighten instinctively.
"You don't even know where the stove is, do you?" he says, glancing past me.
"I would've figured it out," I mutter.
"Mm."
Before I can argue further, he moves past me—not touching, but close enough that I feel the shift in air, the quiet presence of him as he reaches for something behind me, grabbing a pot, filling it with water like this is the most normal thing in the world.
I stand there for a second.
Watching him.
"You don't have to—" I start, but he cuts in without looking at me.
"You'll burn the house down."
"I would not—"
"Jay."
Just that.
And I go quiet.
Because there's something in the way he says my name—not sharp, not annoyed—just… certain.
Like he already decided.
The silence settles again, but this time it's different.
Closer.
Warmer.
The soft sound of water, the faint hum of the kitchen, the distance between us smaller than it should be for two people who are supposed to keep things… defined.
I shift slightly, leaning back against the counter, watching him from the side.
"You do realize this is very domestic," I say after a moment.
"Boiling water?" he replies.
"Yes."
"That's your definition of domestic?"
"With you? Yes."
That makes him glance at me.
And this time, his eyes linger a second longer.
"Get used to it," he says quietly.
My breath stutters—just slightly.
"Not part of the deal," I remind him, softer now.
Something unreadable passes through his expression before he looks back at the stove.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "We'll see."
The words sit between us.
Unresolved.
Dangerous.
And I don't know why—but suddenly, this kitchen, this moment, this night—
Feels like the beginning of something neither of us planned for.
And maybe—
Neither of us can stop anymore.
We don't say anything when the noodles are done.
He just places the bowl in front of me like it's the most normal thing in the world—like we haven't spent weeks pretending, fighting, negotiating every inch of this…
Whatever this is—and I take it, quietly, sitting down at the kitchen table while he takes the seat across from me, the dim light casting soft shadows between us, the entire house still wrapped in that late-night silence that makes everything feel more real than it should.
It's awkward.
Not loud awkward—not forced—but the kind that sits between breaths, between glances, where every small movement feels noticed, where I'm suddenly very aware of the way he's holding his fork, the way he doesn't look at me immediately, the way I don't either.
And yet—
The noodles are… ridiculously good.
I take one bite, then another, and before I can stop myself, I let out a quiet, "Okay… this is actually really good," and his lips twitch slightly, not quite a smile, but close enough that I notice.
"Told you," he says simply, like he expected that.
We eat like that for a while.
In silence.
But not empty silence—something softer, something that feels like it's learning us, slowly, carefully, without either of us acknowledging it out loud.
It hits me somewhere in the middle of it—
That this is the first morning of the year.
And I'm sitting here, in a house that still feels unfamiliar, in a marriage that wasn't supposed to feel like this, eating noodles at 2 AM with the one person I thought I understood the least.
And somehow—
It doesn't feel wrong.
It feels… quiet.
Strangely steady.
By the time I'm halfway through my bowl, he's already finished, standing up without a word, taking his plate to the sink, rinsing it like he's done this a hundred times before, like this isn't new for him, like this—this calm, thisnormal—is something he knows how to handle better than I do.
I watch him.
I don't mean to—but I do.
And just as he's about to walk out, hand brushing the counter as he moves past, he pauses.
Just slightly.
Then looks over his shoulder at me.
"Good night, Jaybird,this time please actually sleep rather than snooping around the kitchen in the middle of th night..."he says, voice low, calm, like the nickname belongs there now, like it fits. "See you in the morning."
And just like that—
He leaves.
No hesitation.
No lingering.
Just the quiet sound of his footsteps fading as he disappears down the hall, leaving me alone at the table, my half-finished bowl in front of me, the warmth of the moment still sitting in the air like something unspoken.
I don't move for a few seconds.
Just sit there.
Processing.
Because that shouldn't have meant anything.
It was just noodles.
Just a conversation.
Just a moment.
But as I finally look down at my hands, at the ring catching the soft kitchen light, at the silence that doesn't feel as heavy anymore—
One thought settles in, quiet but impossible to ignore.
This year—This marriage—This thing between us—It's not going to stay simple.
Not even close.