[̲̅$̲̅(̲̅Jay Jay's POV)̲̅$̲̅]
I woke up and didn't move a muscle. I stayed perfectly still, staring at the charcoal-grey fabric of Keifer's hoodie that was still swallowed around me. My brain was already running at a hundred miles per hour, mostly coming up with very logical, very terrifying survival scenarios.
Okay, Jay Jay, let's look at the facts, I thought, staring wide-eyed at the wall. Fact one: He is a giant. Fact two: I am basically a marshmallow. Fact three: If I eat ice cream at 3:00 AM again, he might actually feed me to the sharks.
I had a very vivid mental image of Keifer carrying me to a boat and dropping me into the ocean like a little breadcrumb. "Eat this, sharks! She's mint-chip flavoured!" I shivered.
No. I had to be a good girl. From now on, I was a professional order-taker. If he told me to sit, I'd sit. If he told me to breathe, I'd ask how many times a minute.
Take orders or you're dead, Jay Jay, I told myself sternly. You're too cute to be shark bait. You have too many tubs of ice cream left to eat in this life.
[̲̅$̲̅(̲̅Keifer's POV)̲̅$̲̅]
I had been awake for hours, watching her. The guilt from the night before was a heavy stone in my gut. I wanted to fix it—I needed to show her I wasn't the monster she saw.
"Jay Jay," I said softly, my voice as gentle as I could make it. "I prepared a bath for you. You're still cold from last night."
She didn't argue. She didn't even huff. She just nodded once, her eyes wide and compliant, and followed me into the bathroom like a little shadow. I had intended for the water to be "warm," but I realized too late that I'd let the tap run too long. The steam was thick, and the water was practically boiling—literal lava.
"Wait, honey, don't get in yet," I said, reaching for the cold handle. "It's too hot. Let it cool down for a—"
Before I could finish, she just... stepped in.
I watched in horror as she sat down in the scalding water. I expected her to scream. I expected her to splash me, to kick her legs, to throw a legendary tantrum about how I was trying to cook her like a lobster.
But she just sat there.
Her skin turned an angry, blistering red almost instantly. She looked like a strawberry dropped into boiling tea. She didn't make a sound, just looked at the wall with a blank, focused expression, as if she were fulfilling a mission.
"Jay Jay! Get out!" I reached in, the heat stinging my own hand, and hauled her out. Her skin was radiating heat, glowing a terrifying shade of crimson. "Are you crazy? That was boiling! Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you fight me?"
She just looked at me, her lower lip trembling slightly, but her voice was small and obedient. "You told me to take a bath, Keifer. I'm taking the bath."
My heart shattered. She wasn't being good—she was terrified that if she didn't obey me perfectly, something even worse than the lava water would happen.
"I didn't mean like this," I choked out, wrapping her in a soft towel and holding her trembling, red-hot body against mine. "Never like this."
[̲̅$̲̅(̲̅ Jay Jay's POV)̲̅$̲̅]
As Keifer hauled me out of the "Lava Pit of Obedience," my brain was still spiralling through nonsense scenarios.
Confirmed: I am now a medium-rare steak, I thought solemnly as my feet hit the bathmat. If he puts me on a plate with some parsley, I shouldn't be surprised. It's part of the 'Be a Good Girl' contract. Clause 4: Must be delicious if served at dinner.
I watched him move, and he looked like he was having a mini-meltdown. His hands were shaking as he grabbed the fluffiest towel we owned. What if he's drying me off so he can wrap me up and mail me back to the Arctic? I wondered, my eyes wide. Would I fit in a standard shipping box? I'd need air holes. And maybe a travel-sized tub of ice cream for the journey. "Fragile: Handle with Care and Sprinkles."
He was being so careful, patting the towel against my angry-red skin like I was a bomb about to go off. I just stood there, stiff as a board, trying to be the most aerodynamic, non-annoying version of myself. Don't wiggle, Jay Jay. If you wiggle, he might think you're trying to escape, and then out comes the shark leash.
Then he pulled out the medicine—a cooling, minty gel to soothe the burn. As he began to rub it over my shoulders, the sensation was so weirdly cold against my hot skin that I almost let out a squeak. I caught it just in time, swallowing it down. No squeaking! Squeaking is for toys. If he thinks I'm a toy, he might donate me to a daycare. I don't want to be covered in toddler germs. I have a reputation to uphold.
I looked at him through my lashes. He was focused on my skin, his brow furrowed with such intense concentration you'd think he was performing heart surgery on a grape.
He's really good at this medicine stuff, a little bubble of my usual mischief trying to pop up before I squashed it back down. If the whole 'scary lion' thing doesn't work out, he could definitely be a professional marshmallow-polisher.
[̲̅$̲̅(̲̅Keifer's POV)̲̅$̲̅]
I felt like I was losing my mind. The cooling gel felt icy under my fingertips, but her skin was still radiating heat like a furnace. Every time I touched a particularly red patch on her arm, I waited for it—the kick, the "Ouch, Keifer!", the pout that usually meant I was in trouble.
But there was nothing.
Just...silence.
She stood there, staring blankly at my chest, her little hands curled into fists at her sides.
She was so still it was unnatural. I was applying the medicine with the lightest touch possible, terrified that I was hurting her even more, but she didn't even flinch.
She's just... taking it, I thought, the guilt twisting like a knife in my gut. She's sitting there in literal pain because she thinks that's what I want. She thinks 'listening' means suffering in silence.
I looked down at her face. Her eyes were glazed over, clearly lost in that strange, imaginative world of hers, but there was no spark. No "I hate you" look. No "You'm a big dummy" mutterings.
"Jay Jay," I said, my voice thick. I capped the medicine and pulled her gently into my lap, even though I was sitting on the edge of the tub. I wanted to shake her—not out of anger, but just to see if the girl I loved was still in there. "Please. Just say one bratty thing. Tell me the medicine smells bad. Tell me I'm doing it wrong. Anything."
She just blinked at me, her red, glowing face looking up with heartbreaking obedience. "It's fine, Keifer. I'm being good. See? No tantrums."
I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against hers. I had broken the very thing that made her her.
[̲̅$̲̅(̲̅Jay Jay's POV)̲̅$̲̅]
I stood in the bedroom, still smelling like minty medicine and "lava-burn," feeling very much like a highly-decorated strawberry. My brain was busy drafting a new set of emergency regulations.
Rule Number 5: When the Lion speaks, you move like a ninja, I thought, staring intensely at a dust mite on the rug. What if he has a stopwatch? What if he's counting the seconds it takes for me to appear? If I'm too slow, he might decide I'm "low-battery" and try to plug me into a wall outlet. I don't want to be plugged in. I'm not a toaster. Although, toasters are warm and people like them... no, focus, Jay Jay! Speed is survival!
I imagined Keifer standing downstairs with a whistle and a clipboard, looking like a very buff, very angry gym teacher. If you're late to the living room, Jay Jay, it's fifty laps around the shark tank!
"Jay! Come down, marshmallow!"
His voice boomed from downstairs, echoing through the hallway.
ABORT MISSION! EVACUATE! my brain screamed. HE USED THE NICKNAME! IS IT A TRAP? IS IT A TEST? MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!
I didn't just walk. I bolted. I was a blur of oversized hoodie and panic. Must be fast! Must be aerodynamic! If I break the sound barrier, maybe he'll be so impressed he'll give me a gold star and a lifetime supply of waffles!
I hit the top of the stairs at Mach 1. What if I'm so fast I actually start flying? I could just hover over the living room like a little marshmallow cloud—
My left foot missed the first step.
Oh no.
The flight manual was a lie!
In a flurry of limbs and grey hoodie fabric, the world began to spin. Wait, am I a bowling ball now? Am I going to get a strike? I tumbled, my body thumping against the carpeted steps.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
If I hit the bottom, do I get a prize? Is the prize a bandage? Or more lava water?
"Oof!" I landed in a tangled heap at the very bottom of the staircase, my legs sticking out of the giant hoodie like two pale, red-tinted sticks. I stayed perfectly still, staring at the ceiling. Conclusion: Marshmallows do not bounce. They splat.
[̲̅$̲̅(̲̅Keifer's POV)̲̅$̲̅]
I had called her down as gently as I could, hoping that a change of scenery—maybe some cartoons and a soft blanket—would help the tension. I expected to hear her slow, hesitant footsteps.
Instead, I heard what sounded like a sack of potatoes falling out of a cargo plane.
THUMP-THUMP-CRASH.
"Jay Jay!" I lunged from the sofa, my heart stopping for the tenth time that day.
I reached the hallway and saw her. She was a tangled mess of grey fabric at the foot of the stairs, her hood pulled over her eyes, completely silent. She wasn't crying. She wasn't yelling at me for having "slippery stairs."
She was just... lying there.
"Sweetheart! Are you hurt? Talk to me!" I dropped to my knees, my hands hovering over her, afraid to touch her in case I broke something.
She slowly pushed the hood back, her eyes wide and dizzy. She didn't look at me with anger. She looked at me with that terrifying, wide-eyed obedience.
"I was fast, Keifer," she whispered, her voice dazed but proud. "I didn't make you wait. Please don't feed me to the sharks."
I stared at her, horrified. She had literally thrown herself down the stairs just to make sure she didn't displease me.
I stared at her, my heart feeling like it had been shredded by a dull blade. Sharks? Where in her wild, beautiful, chaotic mind did she get the idea that I would ever let anything—real or imaginary—touch a hair on her head? The fact that she was more afraid of my stopwatch than of breaking her neck on the stairs made me want to punch a hole through the wall.
"No sharks, Jay Jay. Never any sharks," I choked out, my voice raw.
I scooped her up, her body limp and eerily still in my arms. Usually, if she fell, she'd be wailing about how the stairs 'attacked' her or demanding I kiss every single imaginary boo-boo. Now? Nothing. Just that haunting, quiet compliance.
I sat her down on the velvet couch, her small, pale legs looking even more fragile against the dark fabric. I saw the scratches—angry, red marks blooming across her ankle and calf from the tumble. I went to get the first aid kit, my hands shaking so hard the plastic rattled.
I sat on the floor at her feet and opened the antiseptic. Usually, this was a battle. The second she'd see a cotton ball, she'd be halfway across the room, screaming that it 'stung like bees' and making me chase her around the kitchen island for twenty minutes just to get one swipe in. I used to complain about it, but God, I would have given anything for her to kick me right then.
"This is going to sting, sweetheart," I warned, my heart in my throat.
I pressed the damp cotton to the deepest scratch. I watched her closely. I saw her entire body lock up. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the cushions, and she squeezed her eyes shut so tight her lashes trembled. I could see the sheer pain in the way her jaw clamped shut.
But she didn't scream. She didn't huff. She didn't even pull her foot away.
She just took it.
Like she thought she deserved the pain as long as it kept me from being angry.
Fight me, Jay Jay, I begged silently, the antiseptic stinging my own eyes as they blurred with tears. Call me a meanie. Tell me I'm hurting you. Kick me in the chest. Just don't sit there like a statue.
Every silent second was a reminder of the night before—of me screaming at her until she stopped being a person and started being a ghost. I finished dressing the scratches, my movements slow and agonizingly careful, but the more 'perfect' she acted, the more I felt like I was losing her forever.
I capped the bottle and looked up at her, my hand resting gently on her knee. "Does it hurt, Jay Jay?"
She opened one eye, looking at me with a dazed, heartbreakingly 'good' smile. "It's okay, Keifer. I'm being a brave marshmallow. See? I didn't run away. You don't have to be loud now."
I let out a ragged breath, leaning my head against her knees. I had to break this. I had to find my brat again before this brave marshmallow completely disappeared.
[̲̅$̲̅(̲̅Jay Jay's POV)̲̅$̲̅]
I sat as still as a statue on the sofa, my brain currently stuck in a loop of very high-stakes "what ifs." Okay, Plan A: Be the most aerodynamic marshmallow in history has failed, I thought, staring at my bandaged ankle. New Plan: Become a piece of furniture. If I am a sofa, I cannot fall down stairs. If I am a sofa, I do not need ice cream. I just sit and let people sit on me.
I looked at Keifer out of the corner of my eye. What if he's just waiting for me to breathe too loudly so he can send me to a boot camp for clumsy toddlers? I imagined myself in a tiny camouflage uniform, crawling through a mud pit while a drill sergeant yelled, "VICTORY IS NOT FOR MARSHMALLOWS!"
[̲̅$̲̅(Keifer's POV̲̅)̲̅$̲̅]
The TV was on her favorite show—a cartoon about a magical baking cat—but I wasn't even watching. I was too busy calculating the exact angle I'd need to sit at to look "perfectly obedient." If I blink every ten seconds, does that count as a tantrum? Maybe I should stop blinking entirely. I'll just be a sofa with very dry eyes.
The silence was suffocating. I sat there watching her, and it felt like I was looking at a wax figure instead of my girl. Her favorite show was on—the one she usually narrated with high-pitched voices and sticky-fingered pointing—but she hadn't made a sound.
I need my brat back, my heart aching. I need her to scream at me. I need her to be a menace.
I reached for the remote, my hand trembling slightly. "I'm bored of this, Jay Jay," I said, my voice sounding fake even to me. I clicked the button, switching the magical cat to a boring, grayscale documentary about the history of concrete.
I waited. I braced myself for the "HEY!" or the immediate reach for the remote.
Nothing. She just kept staring at the screen, watching a man explain the mixing process of cement as if it were the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen. "Okay, Keifer," she whispered. "Concrete is good. It's... sturdy. Like a good girl."
My gut twisted. I stood up and walked over to her, reaching for her favorite plush pillow—the one with the velvet cover that she practically treated like a second skin. I tugged it out from under her arm.
"I'm taking this, too," I muttered, feeling like the world's biggest jerk. "You don't need it."
Usually, this would trigger a full-scale war. She'd be off the couch, jumping on my back, biting my shoulder, or wailing that I was a "pillow-thief monster."
Instead, she just adjusted her sitting position, her arms dropping to her sides. She looked so empty, so hollowed out by the fear I'd put in her. "I don't need it," she repeated, her voice small and toneless. "Pillows are for marshmallows. I'm a sofa now."
I dropped the pillow. It hit the floor with a soft thud that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room. I couldn't do it anymore. I hadn't triggered a tantrum, I'd just confirmed her worst fears—that I could take anything I wanted from her, and she had no right to fight back.
I dropped to my knees in front of her, grabbing her small, cold hands in mine. "Jay Jay, look at me. Please. Break something. Throw the remote at my head. Tell me you hate me. Just... stop being 'good.' I'm begging you."