few days had passed since Cyrus had been expelled.
The mansion felt lighter. The university felt lighter. Jay's steps were steadier, her smiles more natural, and the constant tightness in her chest had eased almost completely.
She had begun to feel… normal again.
Keifer noticed.
Noticing was easy. He always did. But he didn't comment on it right away. He waited for the right moment—one of those quiet afternoons when the sun was soft, and the house seemed empty except for them.
"You've been doing well," he said suddenly, leaning casually against the doorway of her room. "How are you feeling?"
Jay shrugged, smiling faintly. "Better. Much better."
Keifer nodded. His eyes softened. "Good. I wanted to ask… do you want to change your section back? To the one you were in before?"
Jay blinked at him, a small laugh escaping. "No."
Keifer raised an eyebrow. "Really? Even after everything?"
"Yes," she said firmly. "I'm fine where I am. I… I like it."
He studied her for a long moment, silently parsing the tone of her voice, the set of her shoulders, the calm in her eyes. She was making the choice herself. That was what mattered.
"Okay," he said finally, nodding once. "I just wanted to make sure. Your decision."
Jay felt a small warmth bloom in her chest. Not because he agreed—because he respected her choice without question, without pressure, without trying to control it.
"Thanks," she murmured.
Keifer didn't respond with words. He simply gave a slight smile, the kind that said, I've got you no matter what.
And for Jay, that was enough.
She didn't need a section change, a rule, or a shield anymore. She had already found her balance.
And she had Keifer—always present, always steady.
The first few days in her section after the change were quiet.
Jay sat at the same desk, watched the same teachers, heard the same chatter—but everything felt… different.
She started small. A nod here, a smile there. A "hi" to someone passing in the hallway. Each tiny gesture felt like a victory.
At lunch, she hesitated at first, tray in hand, scanning the cafeteria. Then someone waved—a friendly, open gesture from a girl named Lila.
"Come sit with us," Lila said.
Jay blinked. Then smiled. Then walked over.
The conversation was light—books, music, small jokes. Jay laughed softly, surprised by how easy it felt to talk without thinking about Cyrus, without glancing over her shoulder.
Keifer noticed, of course.
Not with a shadow of jealousy, not with overprotectiveness, just… with quiet pride. He leaned against the wall at the back of the classroom sometimes, arms crossed, observing without interrupting. Always there, always steady, but letting her take the lead.
By the end of the week, Jay found herself answering questions aloud in class, sharing her opinions, and even teasing a few classmates gently.
It wasn't just comfort—it was freedom.
One afternoon, as she walked back from the library, laughing at a joke a friend had made, she spotted Keifer leaning casually by the gate. His expression was unreadable, but when their eyes met, she felt a small thrill of reassurance.
She had grown, even in small ways. She was mingling, speaking, existing freely. And all of it was possible because someone had given her space to breathe, to recover, and to choose her own pace.
By the time she reached the classroom, she was laughing loudly, joking without hesitation, and sitting confidently in her seat—not hiding, not shrinking.
Keifer caught her glance once more, then turned his attention back to his own notes, letting her shine in her own light.
And for the first time in a long while, Jay felt completely herself again.