DAVID'S POV — WHAT I DIDN'T PLAN
I didn't go out looking for her.
That's the truth.
I'd told myself I wouldn't—told myself it wasn't my place, that whatever was going on between Jay and Section E wasn't something I could fix by hovering. But when she left—really left—without a word, something in my chest pulled tight in a way I couldn't ignore.
So I followed.
Not close enough to be creepy. Not far enough to lose her.
Just… enough.
The bar wasn't hard to find. Places like that never are if you know the city—the quiet door, no sign, the kind of music that hums through the walls before you even step inside.
The second I saw her, I knew two things at once.
One: she was fine. Two: she was not okay.
Jay didn't get sloppy. Even drunk, she moved like she knew exactly where her body was in space—sharp, deliberate, alive. But there was a looseness to her tonight that I'd never seen. A laugh that didn't check the room first. A smile that didn't calculate what it might cost.
She was dancing.
Not performing.
Not posturing.
Just… burning something off.
I stayed back at first. Watched from the edge of the floor, nursing a drink I barely touched. People drifted around her like moths, but she didn't latch onto anyone. She didn't need to.
Then she looked at me.
Not recognition—yet.
Just curiosity.
She crossed the space between us like gravity had nudged her forward, raised an eyebrow, and shouted something I didn't hear over the bass.
I laughed despite myself and leaned in.
"Enough," I told her, when she asked if I danced.
That earned me a grin so wide it almost knocked the breath out of me.
I took her hand.
We danced.
Not close. Not careful. Just honest.
I didn't touch her waist. Didn't pull her in. Didn't take advantage of the fact that she was warm and laughing and loose in a way that would've been easy to exploit.
I matched her pace instead.
She liked that.
I could tell by the way she stayed.
By the way she spun and came back without being pulled.
By the way she trusted me without knowing who I was.
That was the hardest part.
Because I knew.
And she didn't.
When it hit her—when my voice finally cut through the fog and she turned and really looked at me—the lightness cracked. Not shattered. Just… split.
"Oh," she said.
Yeah.
Oh.
I didn't lie. Didn't pretend. Didn't soften it.
"Hey, Jay."
She laughed once, sharp and unsteady, and somehow that hurt worse than if she'd yelled.
We stood at the bar after that, the music still pounding but something quieter settling between us.
"I didn't laugh," I told her. "I swear."
"I know," she said. And she did. That was the thing.
She saw things people didn't think she noticed.
"I followed you," I admitted. "Just to make sure you were okay."
She teased me for it, but not unkindly. There was a steel edge to her smile now—intent, awake.
When she said she was letting Keifer win, I understood exactly what she meant.
And that scared me.
Because I'd seen Keifer play people like chess.
And Jay?
Jay was playing something else entirely.
The night wore on.
She didn't stop drinking.
I did.
By the time she leaned into the bar a little too heavily, laughter slipping into something unfocused, I knew it was time.
"Jay," I said gently. "Hey."
She blinked at me. Smiled. "You're very… vertical."
"High praise," I murmured.
"You live nearby?" she asked, words just slightly thick.
"Yes."
"Good," she said. "Because I am very done with gravity."
That decided it.
I paid the tab. Slung my jacket over her shoulders when she protested the cold outside. She grumbled about independence but didn't pull away when I steadied her.
I didn't touch more than I had to.
Didn't carry her until her knees buckled just enough to make the choice obvious.
"Okay," I said quietly, and scooped her up—careful, secure, like she weighed nothing and everything at the same time.
She blinked up at me, surprised, then sighed.
"You're annoyingly decent," she muttered.
"Someone has to be," I replied.
My condo wasn't far. Clean. Quiet. Neutral.
I laid her on the couch first, then thought better of it and moved her to the bed—on top of the covers, shoes off, lights dimmed. I set water and painkillers on the nightstand, just in case.
She was already half-asleep.
"David?" she murmured.
"I'm here."
"Don't let me do anything stupid tomorrow."
I smiled, tired and fond and worried all at once.
"No promises," I said softly. "But I won't let anyone do it to you."
Her breathing evened out.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a moment longer than necessary, then stood and backed out of the room, giving her space.
Because whatever this was—
Whatever she was planning—
She deserved one night where nothing was taken from her.
Not even by accident.
And if that made me an outsider in Section E?
So be it.
Some lines were worth drawing.
And some people were worth protecting—
Even from themselves.Got it — not a compass, not coordinates. A symbol of strength.
I'll correct it cleanly and rewrite that moment so it fits her and keeps the emotional weight intact.
I was turning away when I saw it.
The sleeve of her top had slipped slightly as she shifted in her sleep, the fabric catching just below her shoulder.
Ink.
Simple. Stark.
A symbol of strength.
Not decorative. Not pretty for the sake of it.
It was clean lines forming an abstract mark—something ancient in its restraint. No words. No dates. No explanation offered to the world.
The kind of tattoo you get not to show others—
But to remind yourself.
My chest tightened.
I knew that symbol.
Not because I'd studied it.
Because I'd seen it once before—under blood and rain and shaking breath, burned into my memory the way fear and relief always are.
Years ago.
The mountains had been cruel that day. A misstep. A fall. A pit just deep enough to trap, not kill. Pain screaming through my ankle, cold seeping in fast, panic clawing at my ribs as the sky narrowed above me.
And then—
A voice.
Calm. Female.
"Hey," she'd called. "You're not stuck. We just need to be smart."
She hadn't rushed. Hadn't panicked. She assessed the drop, tested the ground, anchored the rope like she'd done it a hundred times before.
When she'd lowered herself partway down to secure me—ignoring my protests—I'd noticed the mark on her shoulder then.
That symbol.
Dark against scraped skin.
Strength.
Not brute force.
Not dominance.
Endurance.
Resolve.
The kind that doesn't need witnesses.
She'd talked to me the whole time—kept me breathing, kept me conscious, kept me from spiraling.
"You're allowed to be scared," she'd said quietly. "Just don't let it decide for you."
She'd gotten me out.
Then she'd disappeared before help arrived.
I never knew her name.
I never needed it.
And now—
She was here.
Jay.
Asleep in my bed like the world hadn't just shifted on its axis.
I stepped back slowly, pulse thudding hard in my ears.
So that's why.
Why she didn't flinch at hostility.
Why she moved through danger like it was a calculation, not a threat.
Why she didn't crumble when people tried to corner her.
She wasn't fearless.
She was practiced.
I pulled the blanket higher over her shoulder, covering the symbol again—not hiding it, just… respecting it.
Then I stood there longer than necessary, staring at nothing, understanding everything.
Keifer thought he was playing a game.
Section E thought they'd found leverage.
They were wrong.
Because I wasn't just choosing to be decent.
I was choosing to protect someone who had already proven what strength actually looked like.
And this time—
She wouldn't have to carry it alone.
Not if I had anything to say about it...