Jae's Land Cruiser pulls up at exactly four.
Of course it does.
I'm on the porch steps, jacket zipped too high, pretending my chest didn't tighten the second the engine cuts out.
When he steps out—black jacket, sleeves pushed up, shoulders loose but solid—it feels like the afternoon subtly reorients around him.
Like space makes room.
He looks up.
Our eyes lock.
And he smiles.
It's slow. Knowing. Like he already knows how this is going to go—and he's letting me catch up.
"Laura."
He says my name like a statement, not a question.
"Hey."
I hesitate—barely.
Behind me, Grandma's silhouette is sharp in the window, arms crossed, gaze cutting straight through him.
Jae notices immediately. He doesn't tense. Doesn't rush.
He lifts a hand.
The wave is unhurried. Respectful. Measured.
After a moment, Grandma uncrosses her arms and waves before turning away.
Jae glances back at me, the corner of his mouth tilting.
"She looks like she already made up her mind."
"She always does."
"And?"
"She'll decide if she was right later."
"I trust her judgment," he says, like it's already settled.
Something warm settles low in my chest.
He opens the door for me, his hand hovering near my lower back—not touching, just there.
Steady. Protective without being obvious.
The inside smells like pine and leather, the heater already running.
He pulls onto the road smoothly.
No music. Just the engine and the space between us.
"How is she? Your grandma?" he asks.
"Stubborn. Healing. Still convinced she's immortal."
A quiet huff of amusement. "The dangerous ones usually are."
That lands deeper than it should.
We drive in comfortable silence for a stretch.
"You didn't ask about James," I say.
His jaw shifts slightly. Nothing else.
"What happened?" He asks.
I tell him—about James's dad, the charges, the mess that won't resolve itself.
Jae listens without interrupting, eyes on the road, attention fully on me anyway.
When I finish, he exhales slowly through his nose.
"Good," he says. "That kind of thing doesn't fix itself."
"He's barely holding it together. Gaby's the only thing keeping him upright."
"He'll tell her," Jae says without hesitation. "He just doesn't want to feel weak when he does."
I glance at him. "You sound sure."
"I am."
The red light stops us. He doesn't turn fully—but his presence shifts, attention settling on me like weight.
"You didn't owe me an explanation," he says.
"I didn't want you assuming—"
"I don't assume," he cuts in calmly.
I nod.
The light changes.
We drive.
"Jame´s worried about me and you," I say.
That earns a quiet breath of amusement.
"Of course he is."
"He thinks you´re trouble."
"And?"
"And that I should stay away."
He looks at me, steady. "And yet… here you are."
"I am."
The road narrows as he turns onto gravel. Trees press in, shadows stretching long and quiet.
"He thinks I'm falling for you," I add.
The Land Cruiser rolls forward steadily.
"And are you?"
I look out the window. "Maybe."
He doesn't answer.
Instead, he pulls into a clearing and shuts off the engine.
The silence hits all at once.
"I already have," he finally says.
I blink. "Have what?"
He doesn't look away. "Fallen for you."
I freeze. My brain races faster than my heart. And just like that, the world tilts, and I'm left trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do with that.
"Come on. We're here," he says.
I step out and stop short.
We're higher up now. The trees thin, opening onto a wide overlook.
The lake below stretches dark and vast, catching the last gold of the sky.
"Oh."
Jae leans against the driver's door, watching me—not the view.
"Yeah," he says. "That was my first word too."
The sky bleeds blue into gold, the lake mirroring it back like a second horizon.
Untouched. Almost unreal.
"You come here often?" I ask.
"No," he says. "Only when it matters."
I turn toward him. He meets my eyes without flinching.
No smile. Just truth.
We move closer to the edge. Wind pulls at my jacket.
Jae shifts subtly in front of me—not blocking the view, just anchoring us against the cold.
We stand shoulder to shoulder. No contact. The space feels deliberate. Controlled.
"I meant what I said before," he says. "About being intentional."
"I know."
His gaze holds mine—steady, unblinking. The intensity doesn't press. It waits.
"You don't owe me anything," he says, voice almost gentle. "Not answers. Not trust. Not your… whatever you think you're supposed to give."
Something tightens—and then loosens—inside me.
"I know." I whisper.
"There's something," he says. His voice roughens. "From before. Something I did—or failed to do. It connects us in ways you don't understand yet."
My breath catches.
"What kind of something?"
"The kind that'll hurt," he says plainly. "And change things."
I search his face. "Then tell me."
"Not yet." His thumb brushes mine—brief, grounding, intentional. "But when I do, I need you to remember this."
I don't look away.
"I need you to know I never wanted to hurt you," he says.
He steps closer. Not rushed. Not hesitant.
My heart skips.
"I need you to know," he murmurs, low and raw, "I've always been here. Even when I shouldn't have been. Even when I didn't think I deserved to be."
I shake my head, my voice tight. "Jae… why are you saying this?"
His jaw tightens. For a second, it looks like the words cost him something.
"Because I can't lose you," he says quietly.
The words hit harder than a confession.
"You'll understand later," he adds, almost to himself. "I promise you'll understand."
And then his lips find mine—slow, deliberate, like he's leaving a piece of himself here with me.