The moment came quietly.
It wasn't during a grand speech or a dramatic confrontation. It happened on a normal workday—one of those days that tested patience more than courage.
A new project was announced, one that would put Jay under a different department head for a few months. The room buzzed with opinions, logistics, authority being reshuffled.
Someone laughed lightly. "Jay's flexible. She'll adjust anywhere."
Jay smiled politely, but her chest tightened. She had adjusted her whole life.
Before she could speak, Keifer did.
"Jay stays," he said calmly.
The room went silent.
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't justify himself. "She leads this project with me. That's where her strengths are best used."
All eyes shifted to Jay.
For the first time, she didn't feel like an accessory to a decision. She felt… chosen.
After the meeting, she caught up to him in the hallway. "You didn't have to do that."
"I did," he replied. "Because it was right."
She searched his face. "Even if people talk?"
"They already do," he said gently. "Let them talk about something true."
Jay nodded slowly, emotion rising. "Thank you. For standing there with me."
Keifer smiled. "I wasn't standing with you, Jay. I was standing for you."
That was the day she realized—she didn't just love him privately. She trusted him publicly.
And she chose him just as openly.
The balance didn't come without weight.
A week later, pressure hit from all sides—tight deadlines, long meetings, exhaustion setting in. Jay tried to keep up, but it showed. She grew quieter, shoulders tense, smiles slower.
Keifer noticed everything.
One evening, she snapped over something small. Immediately, guilt followed.
"I'm sorry," she said, rubbing her temples. "I don't know why I'm like this."
Keifer guided her to sit. "Because you're human."
She looked at him, eyes tired. "I don't want to mess this up."
"You won't," he said. "But you don't have to carry it alone."
The real test came when a client questioned their closeness—subtle, professional, but sharp enough to sting.
Jay waited for Keifer to pull back.
He didn't.
He addressed it clearly, respectfully, and drew a line—firm but fair.
Afterward, Jay whispered, "That could've complicated things."
"It could've," he agreed. "But losing your trust would've been worse."
She exhaled shakily. "You're not afraid."
"I am," he admitted. "I'm just more afraid of not being honest."
That night, Jay realized something important: love wasn't proven when things were easy.
It was proven when they chose each other under pressure.
And then… peace.
The kind that didn't need explanation.
Mornings settled into rhythm—shared tea, quiet smiles, comfortable silence. Work felt lighter. Laughter came easier.
One evening, Jay lay on the couch, head on Keifer's lap, while he absently massaged her shoulders, slow and careful.
"You know," she said lazily, "you've completely destroyed my standards."
He smiled. "I keep hearing that."
"I'm serious," she added. "Anyone else would have to reach heaven just to compete."
He chuckled. "Then don't compare."
She tilted her head to look at him. "I won't. I already chose."
Keifer brushed her hair back, tenderness clear in his eyes. "So did I."
There was no drama that night. No conflict to resolve. Just warmth, quiet conversation, and the comfort of knowing tomorrow wouldn't feel lonely.
Jay closed her eyes, breathing steady.
For the first time in her life, love didn't feel loud or uncertain.
It felt safe.
It felt steady.
It felt like home.