Jay noticed the change on an ordinary morning.
She was getting ready to leave the house when she paused, her hand resting on the door handle longer than necessary. Her mind wasn't on where she was going—but who she might see there.
The thought startled her.
She hadn't thought like that in a long time.
At the café, Keifer looked up from his book the moment she walked in. His smile was the same as always—warm, unassuming—but something inside Jay fluttered in response, quick and unfamiliar.
She frowned slightly and looked away.
No, she told herself. Don't.
They talked that day. About nothing important. About a book he was reading, about how the weather kept changing its mind. Jay found herself talking more than usual—longer sentences, fuller thoughts. Keifer listened the same way he always did, but now she was suddenly aware of how close he sat, how calm his presence felt beside her.
And that awareness scared her.
That night, Jay lay awake longer than usual.
Her thoughts drifted—uninvited—to the way Keifer waited for her to finish speaking, to how he never cut her off, to how safe she felt in his silence. The realization settled slowly, like something fragile being placed carefully in her chest.
She cared.
Not deeply. Not wildly.
But enough to notice.
Guilt followed immediately.
She turned onto her side, staring into the dark. She was still married. Still tied to a life she hadn't fully left behind. Even if Jax had never loved her—even if he had looked through her like she was invisible—this felt like crossing a line she hadn't meant to approach.
Keifer had never asked for her heart.
And that somehow made this worse.
The next time they met, Jay was quieter. She chose her words carefully, like she was afraid of saying too much. Keifer noticed—but didn't press.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
Jay hesitated. Then nodded. "Just thinking."
"Alright," he said. "Let me know if you want company in that."
The words stayed with her all day.
Company, not answers.
Presence, not pressure.
Later, as they walked side by side down the street, Jay realized something that made her chest tighten.
She felt more herself with Keifer than she ever had anywhere else.
And that terrified her.
Because wanting something—even something gentle—meant opening herself to loss again. It meant admitting that the part of her that longed for warmth hadn't disappeared. It had only been waiting.
That evening, Jay stood by the window, watching the sky darken, her reflection faint in the glass.
"I'm not ready," she whispered to no one.
But her heart didn't argue.
It simply beat—steady, quiet, awake.
Somewhere far away, Jax existed in a life that no longer reached her the way it once did. And here, in this small, ordinary world, Jay was standing on the edge of something new—not love yet, not hope exactly—but the possibility of it.
And that possibility felt both beautiful…
…and dangerous.