Chapter 10 THE SHIFT

Zara woke before him.

The room was quiet, filled only with the soft sound of his breathing and the filtered morning light slipping through her half-closed blinds. She blinked at the ceiling, her heart already beating too fast.

Her body ached in the best way.

But her mind... was chaos.

Last night had happened.

All of it. The heat. The softness. The way he touched her like she was something precious. The way she had wanted him-desperately, openly. No masks, no filters.

And now here she was, lying beside her best friend, fully tangled in his sheets-and his life.

Zara turned her head.

Jace was asleep, one arm flung over his eyes, the other resting across her waist like he was afraid she'd disappear. His mouth was slightly open. He looked younger like this. Softer. Like the version of him that existed before the world demanded so much from him.

She watched his chest rise and fall and felt a little sick with how badly she wanted to freeze this moment. To stay in this bubble of heat and safety and post-orgasm haze and him.

But real life didn't pause.

Eventually, Jace stirred.

His arm slipped off his face, and his eyes opened slowly. When they landed on her, he smiled-soft, sleepy, unguarded.

"Hey," he whispered.

Zara swallowed. "Hi."

He brushed her hair back from her face, fingers trailing across her cheek.

"You okay?"

That question again. Always that question. Always him checking on her first.

"I don't know," she said truthfully. "I'm still processing."

Jace didn't flinch. He just nodded, eyes steady on hers.

"I didn't come here expecting that to happen," he said gently. "But I'm not sorry it did."

Zara looked down at the sheet twisted between them.

"I'm not sorry either," she said after a pause. "I just... I don't know what happens now."

"You don't have to," he said. "We figure it out together. That's always been our thing, right?"

She smiled faintly. "You say that like we're a team."

Jace leaned in and kissed her shoulder. "We always have been."

⸻

She made coffee while he threw on sweats and helped her find her hoodie. They didn't talk much-just existed in a quiet rhythm that somehow felt familiar. He leaned against her kitchen counter, drinking from her "Stay Soft" mug like it belonged to him.

Maybe it did.

Zara couldn't stop staring at him.

He noticed.

"What?"

"You're just..." She bit her lip. "So normal about this."

He tilted his head. "What would you rather I be? Weird and awkward?"

"Maybe a little," she admitted. "Then I wouldn't feel like I'm the only one spiraling."

Jace set the mug down and came over, placing his hands on her hips.

"You're not spiraling," he said softly. "You're scared. Because you've never had this before."

She blinked.

He was right.

She'd had hookups. Crushes. A few almosts that faded before they started. But she'd never had this-the slow burn, the friendship first, the man who looked at her like she was the beginning and end of every sentence.

"I don't want to mess this up," she whispered.

"You won't," he said. "You're not alone in this, Zara. You never have been."

Her throat tightened.

"I meant what I said last night," he continued. "I love you. And I'm not going to rush you or pressure you. But I'm also not pretending like it didn't happen. I want you-whatever version of you you're ready to give."

Tears stung her eyes before she could stop them. She hated how easily he cracked her open.

"God, Jace..." She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest. "I'm not good at this."

"You don't have to be good at it," he murmured into her hair. "You just have to be here."

They stood like that for a long time-two people in the quiet wreckage of something beautiful, holding on because it felt like the only thing that made sense.

⸻

Later that day, when Jace left, he didn't say goodbye. He kissed her like it was a promise, pressed his forehead to hers, and said, "Text me if you overthink. I'll shut your brain up."

She laughed and pushed him out the door.

But she didn't text him.

Not because she didn't spiral. She did.

But because she wanted to hold that morning close for just a little longer, uninterrupted.

Because this wasn't just the morning after.

It was the beginning of something real.