JAY'S POV — THE MORNING AFTER
I woke up wrong.
That was the first thing I noticed.
Not hungover—my head didn't ache, my mouth wasn't dry—but wrong, like the room itself had shifted an inch to the left while I slept.
The ceiling wasn't mine.
Neither were the walls.
I sat up slowly, senses snapping into place one by one. Neutral colors. Minimal furniture. Too clean to be a hotel, too personal to be random.
A low, steady sound drifted in from somewhere beyond the door.
Movement.
Cooking.
My spine straightened.
I swung my legs off the bed, feet hitting cool tile, and paused—checking myself. Clothes intact. No soreness. No panic humming under my skin.
Good.
I followed the sound.
The apartment opened into a compact kitchen-living space, sunlight spilling in through wide windows. And there—
David.
Standing at the stove.
Sleeves rolled up. Hair slightly messy. A pan sizzling softly as he flipped something that smelled… decent. Eggs, maybe. Toast.
Domestic.
Normal.
My guard slammed up instantly.
"What am I doing here?" I asked sharply.
He turned at once.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't act surprised.
"Morning, Jay," he said calmly. "Careful—your tone suggests murder and I'd rather finish breakfast first."
That only tightened the coil in my chest.
"I'm serious," I said. "Why am I in your apartment?"
He set the spatula down slowly, deliberately—like he didn't want to spook me.
"You came with me last night," he said. "You were drunk. Not unconscious. Not coerced."
"I don't get drunk," I snapped.
"You did last night," he replied gently. "Not dangerously. Just… enough."
I searched his face for cracks.
Found none.
"Nothing happened," he continued before I could ask. "You slept. I slept on the couch."
Silence stretched between us.
I noticed then—water on the counter. Painkillers untouched. My shoes lined neatly by the door.
No mess.
No lies.
Memory crept back in fragments.
The bar.
The music.
Dancing.
Laughter.
David.
Recognition hit like a delayed bruise.
"You followed me," I said quietly.
"Yes."
"You picked me up."
"Yes."
"You brought me here."
"Yes."
I folded my arms, studying him like a puzzle that didn't want to be solved.
"And you thought this was okay?"
He met my gaze evenly.
"I thought leaving you alone wasn't."
That landed harder than it should have.
I looked away first.
"…I don't remember agreeing."
"You did," he said. "You also called gravity your enemy and declared war on stairs."
Despite myself, something flickered.
I exhaled.
"Why are you being nice to me?" I asked.
That made him pause.
Not hesitate.
Consider.
"Because you deserve it," he said finally. "And because last night you didn't need another person trying to take something from you."
I turned back to him.
"Section E is not known for kindness," I said flatly.
"I know."
"And you're still part of it."
"Yes."
"Then explain this."
He gestured around the apartment. The food. The calm.
"This," he said, "is me drawing a line."
I stared at him for a long moment.
Then—slowly—the tension in my shoulders eased just a fraction.
"…I need to leave," I said.
"After you eat," he replied. Not a demand. A boundary.
I scoffed. "You don't get to—"
"You drank on an empty stomach," he cut in mildly. "Humor me."
Annoying.
Reasonable.
I hated that combination.
I sat.
He slid a plate toward me without comment.
We ate in silence.
It wasn't awkward.
That somehow made it worse.
When I finally stood, bag over my shoulder, I paused at the door.
"David," I said.
He looked up.
"If I ever find out you lied about last night—"
"I didn't," he said immediately.
"I know," I replied. "This isn't a threat. It's a fact."
His mouth twitched.
"Understood."
I hesitated.
Then added quietly, "Thank you. For not being what I expected."
He watched me closely.
"You should be careful," he said. "Keifer's plan didn't end last night."
I met his eyes.
"Oh," I said calmly. "Mine didn't start last night either."
Something unreadable passed through his expression.
I left before either of us could say more.
But as the door closed behind me, one truth settled deep and unmovable in my chest:
David wasn't part of the game anymore.
He was standing in front of it.
And that made him dangerous in an entirely different way.
My hand was already on the door when the thought hit.
Too clean.
Too careful.
Too… deliberate.
I turned back.
"Why should I trust you?" I asked.
David looked up from the counter, fingers resting lightly on the edge like he'd expected the question. Not braced for it—prepared.
"Trust me?" he repeated. "You shouldn't. Not blindly."
"That wasn't my question."
He studied me for a second longer than necessary, then sighed—quiet, almost resigned.
"You don't have to trust me," he said. "Just the debt."
My brows knit. "Debt."
He nodded once. "Years ago. Mountains. Late afternoon. Weather turning."
My breath stilled.
"Someone fell," he continued calmly. "Ankle wrecked. Panic setting in fast. And a girl with a symbol of strength on her shoulder anchored a rope like fear didn't exist."
The room narrowed.
I said nothing.
"She talked the whole time," he added. "Didn't rush. Didn't pity. Just… solved the problem."
I swallowed.
"You told me I was allowed to be scared," he said, eyes steady on mine. "Just not to let it decide for me."
Silence pressed in hard.
"That was you," he finished.
I laughed once—short, sharp. "You've got the wrong person."
He didn't argue.
Didn't insist.
He simply reached into a drawer, pulled out his phone, and slid it across the counter.
The screen lit up.
A grainy photo. Old. Cropped poorly. A rescue report—timestamped years back. A partial shot of a shoulder as paramedics wrapped gauze.
The symbol.
My symbol.
I closed my eyes for half a second.
When I opened them, he was still watching me. Not triumphant. Not emotional.
Grounded.
"So," he said softly, "as a Braselton— I don't do wrong by my savior."
I stared at him.
"A what?"
He shrugged, like he'd just admitted to preferring tea over coffee. "Braselton."
The name landed with weight.
Old money. Old influence. The kind of family that didn't trend because it didn't need to. Endowments. Boards. Quiet power stitched into institutions.
I exhaled slowly. "You're a Braselton. As in that Braselton."
"Yes."
"You're the young master of a legacy that owns half the city's silence," I said flatly.
He shrugged again. "Sounds louder when you say it."
"You hid that."
"I didn't advertise it," he corrected. "Big difference."
I shook my head, incredulous. "And you're just… okay with this? With me?"
"About you? " he said, easy and sure. "Yes."
I searched his face for the crack. The angle. The reason.
Found none.
"You don't owe me," I said quietly.
"I know," he replied. "That's why it matters."
I turned for the door again, needing air—space—anything that wasn't this sudden reweighing of the world.
"Jay."
I paused.
He crossed the room and set something on the console by the door.
A handbag.
Simple. Black. Clean lines. New.
"I didn't know your size," he said. "So I kept it flexible."
I opened it.
Folded clothes. A soft tee. Jeans. Fresh underlayers. A light jacket. Thoughtful. Neutral.
Practical.
"I didn't want you leaving in last night," he added. "Or borrowing again."
I closed the bag slowly.
"David," I said, and the word felt different now. "This doesn't make us allies."
He smiled—small, honest. "Good. Allies get complicated."
"And Section E?"
"I'm still me," he said. "They're still them."
I nodded once.
Fair.
At the door, I hesitated.
"You didn't tell them," I said.
"I won't," he replied. "Not about last night. Not about the past."
"Why?"
"Because you didn't save me for leverage," he said simply. "You saved me because it was right."
I met his gaze.
"Careful," I warned. "Standing in front of the game gets you hit."
He inclined his head. "Standing behind it gets you owned."
I almost smiled.
Almost.
I left with the bag on my arm and the weight of old truths settling back into place.
Behind me, the door closed softly.
No rules.
No regrets.
Just lines drawn where they should've been all along.....
Home didn't ask questions.
That was the problem.
I shut my bedroom door and leaned back against it, letting the familiar quiet wrap around me. The kind of quiet that usually meant safety.
Tonight, it meant space to think.
The handbag slid from my shoulder and landed on the chair. I didn't open it again. I didn't need to.
David Braselton.
Not a lie.
Not a bluff.
Not a coincidence.
The memory wasn't hazy. It never had been.
The mountains.
The fall.
The way fear had tried to crawl up my throat and failed.
And the boy at the bottom of the pit — injured, shaking, but still listening when I told him to breathe.
I'd never stayed for thanks.
I never did.
Because saving someone wasn't a contract.
But now—
Now the past had reached forward and wrapped itself around my present.
A soft knock.
The maid entered quietly, set a tray on my desk — snacks, tea, fruit — and left without meeting my eyes.
I didn't touch it.
I paced instead.
David hadn't exaggerated. Hadn't romanticized it. Hadn't turned it into something heroic. He'd told it the way it happened — methodical, grounded, stripped of drama.
That alone confirmed it.
People who lie polish stories.
People who tell the truth let it stand bare.
I stopped by the window, staring out at the city.
So what did this change?
First:
He hadn't chosen me last night.
I had chosen him years ago — without knowing it would ever matter.
That shifted the balance completely.
Second:
His kindness wasn't curiosity.It wasn't attraction.
It wasn't strategy.
It was obligation.
And obligation, when chosen freely, was one of the most dangerous things in the world.
Because it didn't fade.
It didn't bend.
It stayed.
Third:
He wasn't trying to enter the game.
He was stepping between me and it.
That wasn't loyalty.
That was protection.
I exhaled slowly.
People like Keifer protected when it benefited them.
People like David protected because they decided someone mattered.
That made him predictable in the worst way possible.
Predictable to himself.
I rubbed my temple.
This wasn't an advantage I could exploit.
This wasn't leverage.
This was a line I couldn't pretend didn't exist.
If I accepted him —
Really accepted him —
Then I accepted responsibility too.
For what might happen to him if things went wrong.
For what he might lose by standing where he stood.
For the fact that old money families didn't step into storms without consequences.
I hated that part the most.
I picked up my phone.
Typed.
Stopped.
Deleted.
Typed again.
✉️ Jay:
Fine. Let's do it.
But understand this — I don't get protected.
I get out alive.
The reply came fast.
✉️ David:
Good.
I don't protect people who wait to be saved.
A pause.
Then another message.
✉️ David:
And Jay?
I survived the first fall because of you.
I'm not afraid of a second.
I closed my eyes.
That was it.
No romance.No illusions.No safety net.
Just two people who understood exactly how dangerous the truth could be —
And chose it anyway.
I set the phone down, finally reaching for the tea.
It was warm now.
Steady.
Real.
And for the first time since Section E decided I was something to be played with—
I wasn't calculating alone.
Not because I needed help.
But because the past had decided to stand up and say:
You don't walk this part by yourself anymore.
Whether I liked it or not.