Keifer's POV
I woke up from the sunlight creasing from the window.The pounding in my head was a rhythmic reminder of my own stupidity, but it was nothing compared to the weight of the memories flooding back. The beach. The beer. The raw, unfiltered confession I'd spilled at Jay's feet like a dying man.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my face. I remembered it all—how she had looked at me with that mix of fury and pity, how she'd dragged my drunk soul back to this room.
She'd given me five minutes, and in those five minutes, I had laid my heart bare. She hadn't forgiven me—not yet—but she had given me a chance to earn it. That was more than I deserved, and I swore to the ceiling of this cottage that I wouldn't waste a single second of this second chance.
I walked out to the balcony, my eyes softening when I saw her. She was curled up in the chair, fast asleep in the morning chill. She looked so small, so exhausted from the emotional war I'd put her through.
Moving like I was walking on glass, I leaned down and tucked my arms under her, lifting her gently. She let out a soft sigh, her head lolling against my chest. As I laid her down on the bed and pulled the duvet over her, she let out a sleepy, muffled mumble.
"Five more minutes, hubby..." she whispered, her brow furrowing as she shifted into the pillow. "The kids... are sleeping..."
I froze. The air left my lungs as if I'd been punched. My ears felt like they were on fire, and I could feel a heat crawling up my neck that had nothing to do with the sun. Hubby? Kids? My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. In her dreams, she wasn't just forgiving me—she was building a life with me.
"Jay?" I whispered, my voice trembling. "Who... who is your hubby?"
"Keif..." she breathed out, a tiny, ghost of a smile touching her lips before she drifted back into a deeper sleep.
A wide, uncontrollable grin broke across my face. I felt like I could fly. I leaned down, my lips inches from her ear, and whispered, "Good morning, wifey."
Jay's eyes snapped open. For a second, she was dazed, and then she saw me. She scrambled back, nearly falling off the other side of the bed. "What are you doing here, asshole?!"
I chuckled, crossing my arms over my chest, feeling more like myself than I had in months. "Wow, 'wifey.' Now I'm an 'asshole'? Just a minute ago, I was 'Hubby' and the kids were sleeping."
The blood drained from her face, replaced instantly by a crimson flush so deep it reached her hairline. "I... I didn't! You heard wrong. Your brain is still fried from the alcohol."
"I heard you perfectly, Jay. You wanted five more minutes."
"I didn't say that! Now go and prepare breakfast for me," she snapped, trying to hide her face behind a pillow.
"I won't. Not until you call me 'hubby' again," I teased, leaning against the bedpost.
"Hubby my foot! Go prepare breakfast!"
"No 'hubby,' no breakfast."
"No!"
"Yes."
"Keifer, I'm hungry!"
"Then say it."
She groaned into the pillow, a long, frustrated sound. Finally, she peeked out, her voice a tiny, irritated thread. "Fine. Hubby... make breakfast."
"Louder, Jay. I'm a bit deaf today."
"Just make the fucking breakfast, hubby!"
"Language, wifey," I laughed, leaning down and catching her off guard with a lightning-fast peak on her lips. Before she could process the shock or throw a lamp at me, I was out the door. "Breakfast will be ready in ten!"
I headed downstairs, whistling. I spent the next half hour making everything she liked—pancakes, fresh fruit, coffee just the way she liked it. But when the food was ready, she still hadn't come down.
I went back upstairs and stopped at the doorway. She was standing in front of the mirror, her arms raised, struggling desperately with her hair.
She was trying to braid it, but her fingers kept slipping, her frustration visible in the way her shoulders were tensed. She looked so adorable I almost didn't want to interrupt.
I walked up behind her, taking the strands from her hands.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her eyes meeting mine in the reflection.
"Eating food... What does it look like? I'm helping you."
"Don't mess my hair up, Keifer. If you can't style them, don't touch them."
"I can style them, just wait," I murmured, my fingers moving with a practiced ease she didn't expect.
"I'm warning you," she said, though her voice lacked its usual bite. "If it's damaged or it hurts, I will shave your head ."
I chuckled, my fingers weaving the sections over and under. I'd spent years watching my mom do this, and later, she'd made me practice on her until I was perfect. When I finished, a neat, intricate braid rested against her back.
Jay turned around, touching the hair in disbelief. "Were you working at a hair salon before this?"
I laughed, nudging her toward the door. "Stop your imagination and come down. My mom taught me. Now, feed that attitude of yours before it gets worse."
Jay's POV
I followed him downstairs, my hand still grazing the braid. I hadn't forgiven him—I told myself that every time my heart fluttered. But as I watched him move around the kitchen, I saw glimpses of the old Keifer. Not the beast, not the liar, but the boy who used to look at me like I was his entire world.
He was working for it. He was trying.
We sat at the table, the atmosphere lighter than it had been since we arrived. We spent half the meal in a heated, ridiculous argument about whether Superman or Batman was the superior hero.
"Batman has no powers, Jay! He's just a rich guy in a bat suit!"
"He has a brain, Keifer! Superman is just a flying Boy Scout!"
It felt... normal. Almost.
"When can we go home?" I asked, taking a sip of coffee.
"Tomorrow evening," he replied, his gaze softening. "The boat will be here then."
I nodded, but suddenly, a sharp, familiar cramp twisted in my lower abdomen. My face went pale, and I dropped my fork. The color must have drained from my lips because Keifer was around the table in a second.
"Jay? What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I gritted out, clutching the edge of the table. I was too embarrassed to tell him. "Just a stomach ache."
Keifer looked at me, his eyes searching mine for a beat before realization dawned on him. "Jay... is it your period?"
I felt the heat rush to my face. "How do you... how did you guess that?"
"I know your expressions, Jay," he said
gently, not a hint of mockery in his voice.
"There are pads in your closet, top shelf. I made sure they were stocked before we came. Go on, I'll take care of this."
I nodded, too relieved to argue, and hurried to my room. By the time I changed and came back down, the table was cleared, but the cramps had intensified, radiating through my back. I sank onto the couch, curling into a ball and pressing my forehead against my knees.
I heard footsteps, and then the scent of chocolate and something herbal filled the air. Keifer appeared with a glass of warm brown water, a bar of dark chocolate, and a hot water bag.
"Drink this," he murmured, sitting on the edge of the couch. "It's ginger and honey."
I took a few sips and nibbled on the chocolate, but the pain was relentless. I let out a low whimper, my eyes squeezing shut.
Keifer didn't say a word. He moved behind me, pulling me back so I was leaning against his chest, using his body as a support.
He slid his hand, his palm landing directly over my lower stomach. His hand was large and incredibly warm, and he began to press and massage the area with a slow, steady rhythm.
The relief was almost instantaneous. The tension in my muscles began to uncoil under his touch. When he started to move his hand away, thinking he was bothering me, I instinctively reached out and caught his wrist.
"Please," I whispered, my voice thick with exhaustion. "Be like this. Don't move."
"I'm not going anywhere, Jay," he whispered back, his breath tickling my hair. "I've got you."
Wrapped in his warmth, the pain fading into a dull hum, I felt my eyelids grow heavy. For the first time in a long time, the weight of the betrayal felt lighter than the comfort of his arms. As I drifted off to sleep, my last thought was that maybe—just maybe—he was finally becoming the man I could trust again.
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