Chapter 37 - The Wrong Door Again

Jay's POV

I didn't sleep.

Not even for a second.

Every time I closed my eyes, he was there.

That stupid face.

That stupid voice.

That stupid king of ulu🐍pong.

Eight years.

Eight damn years—and my brain still thought he had the right to exist in my head.

I groaned and rolled off the bed, hair a mess, eyes burning like I'd cried all night—which I absolutely did not. I just… aggressively didn't sleep.

"Ughhh," I muttered. "I'm starving."

I dragged myself to the kitchen and opened the fridge.

Empty.

Of course.

I stared at it like it had personally betrayed me.

Wow. Even the fridge hates me.

"I don't even know how to cook," I muttered, rubbing my face. Back in LA, I literally had a chef.

Not just any chef.

A very expensive one.

The kind who knew exactly how I liked my food without me saying a word.

God, I miss that.

Now look at me—alone in a condo, fighting hunger like it's a villain arc.

I shut the fridge dramatically.

"What do I do now??"

Then—

"Oh. WAIT."

Lucas.

"How did I forget Lucas?" I gasped.

That man cooks like chef kiss 🤌🏻. Actual talent. Illegal talent.

And he loves having me around. Like—actually loves. Eats better when I'm there, talks more, complains less. Claims I "bring chaos and seasoning" into his life.

Decision made.

I rushed to the bathroom, brushed my teeth like my life depended on it, splashed water on my face, and called it a day.

Did I comb my hair?

No.

Why would I?

It's Lucas.

I threw on a hoodie, grabbed my phone, locked my condo, and stepped into the hallway—half-awake, half-dead, fully hungry.

Same floor. Same layout.

I stopped in front of the door and knocked weakly.

"Lucas," I muttered, leaning closer.

"Open up before I collapse."

Nothing.

I knocked again, louder. Then leaned my forehead against the door.

"If I pass out here," I whispered, "this is on you."

I knocked again, this time practically hanging on the door—

And suddenly—

It opened.

I fell forward.

Straight into someone.

Strong arms caught me instantly—one hand firm on my waist, the other steadying my back. My face barely missed a solid chest.

Warm. Solid.

Oh no.

I froze.

Slowly, I lifted my head.

Keifer.

Fresh from the shower. Hair damp. Towel around his neck. Black T-shirt clinging slightly.

For a second, the world stopped.

His hand was still on my waist.

Then—low, amused, far too calm—

"Careful," he murmured. "If you wanted to fall into my arms, you could've just asked."

My brain short-circuited.

I jerked back immediately. "Don't flatter yourself."

His gaze dipped briefly to where his hand had been.

"Shame," he said. "You looked comfortable."

I crossed my arms. "I knocked on the wrong door."

"Again," he said.

I met his eyes, cool and detached.

"Excuse me, Mr. Watson."

His jaw tightened instantly.

"Don't call me that."

"It's accurate," I replied. "And distant. Exactly how I like it."

Silence stretched between us.

I turned away, raised my hand to knock on the next door—

"Jay?"

Lucas's door opened.

He stood there, blinking once, then smiling.

"Ohhh," he said. "Wrong door? Again?

I sighed. "I have a talent."

He laughed. "Come in before you actually collapse."

"Gladly," I said and walked straight into his condo.

I didn't look back.

Didn't see Keifer still standing there.

Didn't notice the way the hallway suddenly felt too small.

All I knew was—

Some doors are accidents.

And some accidents refuse to be forgotten.

Lucas's condo smelled like safety.

And food.

Glorious, life-saving food.

I dropped into the chair like my bones had given up. "I want it on record that I almost died outside your door."

Lucas snorted, flipping something on the pan. "You're dramatic."

"I'm accurate."

He slid a glass of water toward me without looking. Same old habit. Same Lucas.

I drank it like I'd been rescued from a desert.

"You didn't sleep," he said casually.

"Nope."

He glanced at me over his shoulder. "At all?"

"Nope."

He hummed, not pushing. Lucas never pushed. That was his thing.

I rested my chin on my hands, watching him cook. He always did this—moved around the kitchen like it was his natural habitat. Confident. Calm. Comfortable.

Back in LA, this was normal.

Me half-alive at his counter.

Lucas feeding me like it was his personal responsibility.

Honestly, it kind of was.

He placed a plate in front of me.

I stared at it.

Then at him.

"I love you," I said sincerely.

He smiled. Soft. "I know."

I grabbed my fork and started eating like I hadn't seen food in years.

"This," I said around a bite, "is why I stay alive."

Lucas sat across from me with his coffee, watching me with that familiar look—fond, amused, a little too attentive.

"So," he said lightly, "you knocked on the wrong door."

I groaned. "Please erase that from your memory."

He raised an eyebrow. "Hard to forget. I opened my door and you were… mid-collapse."

"I tripped," I defended. "Gravity attacked me."

"Gravity," he repeated, smiling. "And Keifer Watson."

I froze for exactly half a second.

Then shrugged. "Him."

Lucas didn't miss it. He never did.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

I nodded too fast. "Yeah. Totally."

He leaned back, studying me. "You say that like you're trying to convince yourself."

I stabbed my food. "You're overthinking

He didn't argue.

Instead, he reached over and stole a bite from my plate.

"HEY," I protested. "I almost died."

"You're dramatic," he said again, but softer this time.

I looked at him. Really looked.

Lucas had always been like this—steady, warm, always there. In LA, he was the one who made sure I ate, slept, showed up. The one who waited when I disappeared into work. The one who never complained when I leaned on him.

He smiled when our eyes met.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said quickly, looking away.

"Just… don't push your self. You can always talk to me

I know and i will I said honestly.

He went quiet at that.

"You're staying with me, right?" he asked, trying to sound casual. "At least for now."

"Obviously," I said. "Where else would I go?"

His smile returned—slow, relieved. "Good."

I went back to eating, completely unaware of the way his gaze lingered.

Unaware of how much that one word—obviously—meant to him.

To me, Lucas was home.

Safe.

Familiar.

And nothing more.

I had no idea—

That some people fall quietly.

And stay there.