Keifer noticed before Jay realized she was doing it.
She arrived later than usual. Chose a table farther from him. Her smiles still came—but they didn't linger. Her answers were softer, shorter, like she was carefully folding parts of herself away.
He didn't call her out on it.
He just adjusted.
When Jay sat down with her tea, Keifer closed his book and shifted his chair slightly—enough to face her, not enough to crowd her.
"Long day?" he asked.
She nodded. "Something like that."
He didn't ask more.
They sat in silence, the comfortable kind that had once wrapped around her easily. Today, though, Jay felt restless inside it—like she was afraid of leaning too much into something she hadn't named.
Keifer sensed it. He always did.
So when she stood to leave earlier than usual, he didn't look disappointed. He didn't ask her to stay.
"Take care," he said simply.
Jay paused, her hand on the strap of her bag. She turned back to look at him, searching his face—maybe for expectation, maybe for something she needed to refuse.
There was nothing there to fight against.
Just calm.
"You too," she said quietly.
On the walk home, that calm followed her—and somehow made her chest ache.
The next few days went the same way. Jay still came by, but less often. When she spoke, she stayed on safe topics. When she laughed, it felt measured, like she was afraid of wanting more.
Keifer never crossed the line.
He didn't reach out.
Didn't question her distance.
Didn't demand clarity.
One evening, as they walked together after closing time, Jay finally stopped near the gate of her place. The words had been sitting heavy in her chest for days.
"I might seem… off lately," she said softly.
Keifer nodded. "I noticed."
Her shoulders tensed. "I'm not trying to be rude."
"I know," he said immediately. "You don't have to explain."
Jay looked up at him then, really looked. "Most people would ask why."
Keifer smiled faintly. "Most people think they're owed answers."
The words landed gently—but firmly.
"I don't want to pressure you," he continued. "Whatever you're figuring out… you're allowed to take your time."
Jay swallowed. Her eyes burned—not with tears, but with something close.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"For what?"
"For not making me feel guilty," she said. "For feeling anything at all."
Keifer didn't step closer. Didn't touch her. He just met her gaze, steady and kind.
"Jay," he said, "if you ever decide you need space, I'll respect that. And if you decide you want company again—I'll be here. Either way."
That was it.
No promise.
No claim.
No hidden expectation.
As Jay watched him walk away, something inside her shifted—slow, certain, irreversible.
She realized the truth she had been avoiding:
It wasn't Keifer who scared her.
It was how gently he handled her heart—like it mattered.
And for someone who had lived so long feeling invisible, that kind of care felt overwhelming.
Jay closed the gate behind her and leaned against it, pressing a hand to her chest.
She wasn't ready.
But she knew one thing now.
When she was…
Keifer wouldn't rush her.
And that made all the difference.