When you got to his place, it was quiet. Clean. Warm. The kind of place that smelled like cedarwood and fresh laundry. You slipped off your shoes, still holding the cup he gave you.

Jay didn’t say a word.

He walked past you, turned the heater on, then came back with a fluffy towel. Without asking, he started gently drying your damp hair—focused, gentle, careful.

You didn’t move.

“You’ll get sick,” he muttered, not looking at you.

His touch was soft, but his brows were furrowed. Like he was mad at the rain for touching you. Mad at himself for not getting to you sooner.

After that, he placed a hoodie—his hoodie—into your hands.

“Change. I’ll make something light.”

You stared at it. It smelled like him. Expensive cologne and something warm. Like safety. You slipped it on.

In the kitchen, Jay moved quietly. A pot bubbling, knife tapping against a cutting board. You stood by the doorway, watching him.

He never looked up when he spoke.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened.” “But don’t carry it alone next time.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat.

He served the soup in a black ceramic bowl. It wasn’t perfect. The egg was crooked. The seaweed floating like it got lost. But your heart swelled.

Because he cooked for you.

Jay—quiet, unreadable Jay—chose you. In his actions. In his presence. In the way he showed up.

Later, you found yourself curled up on the couch, hoodie sleeves covering your hands, bowl empty beside you.

Jay sat next to you, watching the quiet city from his window.

You turned to him and whispered, “You don’t talk much.”

He glanced over.

“I don’t need to.” “I just need you to feel it.”

And somehow… You did.