#soft boy jay

The soft hum of the ceiling fan is the only sound in your shared apartment when you open your eyes. The pale light of dawn seeps through the thin curtains, painting the room in muted gold. You hear movement from the other side of the room, the rustle of fabric, the faint clink of a watch being fastened, and the subtle scent of cologne that has, over the last month, come to mean Jay.

It’s strange how quickly a scent can become familiar. Comforting, even.

“Morning,” his voice comes, deep but gentle, the way it always is before he fully wakes up.

You manage a small smile. “Morning.”

Jay stands by the dresser, adjusting his tie. He looks composed, neat as always. The perfect picture of someone who knows what he’s doing, someone who was probably ready for marriage long before you were. He glances at you briefly in the mirror, and the corner of his lips lifts just a little. It’s shy, tentative like he’s still unsure if smiling at you is something he’s allowed to do freely yet.

“You don’t have to get up now,” he says, reaching for his watch. “You looked tired last night.”

You hum in response, trying to sit up but wincing when a sharp pain twists low in your abdomen. It’s that dull, throbbing ache that you’ve known since your teens, the kind that doesn’t listen to logic or medication. You mask the pain with a quick inhale, hoping he doesn’t notice.

“I’ll get up soon,” you mumble. “Need to go to work, too.”

He nods, slipping on his jacket. “You’ll have breakfast before leaving?”

“Yeah,” you lie easily. “Of course.”

You can feel his eyes on you for a second longer than usual, as if he wants to say something else, maybe ask if you’re alright, but he doesn’t. That’s how it’s been since the wedding: small silences filled with almost-questions, the kind that hover between two people still learning how to fit into each other’s worlds.

When he finally heads for the door, he pauses, hand on the knob. “I’ll be back by seven,” he says softly. “Text me if you need anything.”

You nod again, forcing another faint smile. “Okay. Have a good day, Jay.”

“You too.”

The door closes with a quiet click, and just like that, the apartment feels too big again, the silence pressing against your ears. You stay there for a moment, staring at the empty space he left behind, before curling back under the blanket, pressing a hand to your abdomen as another cramp ripples through you.

You whisper to yourself, “It’s fine. Just another day.”

But it isn’t. Not today.

By the time the clock hits nine, you’re supposed to be halfway through your commute with coffee in one hand, headphones in, pretending to be functional.

Instead, you’re curled up on the couch in your oversized sweatshirt, a half-filled hot water bag resting against your stomach, the muted hum of the TV doing its best to distract you from the pulsing ache inside your body.

It’s one of those days. The kind where every cramp feels like a wave, rising and crashing without warning. You’ve had bad cycles before, but this one… this one feels like your body’s waging a quiet war.

You reach for the pain patch you’d bought last month, stick it onto your lower abdomen, and wait. Ten minutes later, it does almost nothing. The painkillers dull it a bit, but not enough. You sip warm water, then curl tighter into the couch, pressing the hot bag harder until it almost burns.

“Why today?” you mutter to no one, your voice small against the sound of a drama rerun playing on TV.

You think about calling in sick and after another sharp cramp that has you squeezing your eyes shut, you finally give in. You text your manager, “Not feeling well today. Taking the day off.”

It feels like a tiny relief, though guilt flickers somewhere behind it.

You switch off your work notifications and let yourself drift into a lazy rhythm. The day moves slowly. You nap, wake up, eat a few bites of the instant noodles you’d made, and then reach for the chocolates in the fridge. The sugar helps. A little comfort, small and familiar.

When afternoon light spills across the room, you’re lying on the couch surrounded by snack wrappers and an empty mug of hot chocolate. You think, fleetingly, about Jay.

He’s probably at work, neat suit, quiet voice, polite smile. You remember the way he always checks if you’ve eaten before he leaves in the mornings. He doesn’t say much, but the way he folds your laundry when you forget, or leaves a note reminding you to drink water- those small things have started to mean something.

It’s strange how care can be so quiet.

You sigh, pressing the hot bag against your stomach again. “He’d probably think I’m so dramatic if he saw me like this,” you whisper, almost laughing at yourself.

You picture his reaction, maybe that small frown he gets when he’s confused or worried. You’ve seen it once or twice, and somehow, it always makes your heart clench.

By the time the sun starts to dip below the horizon, the pain has eased just enough for you to sit up and switch on the lamps. You pull your hair into a messy bun, look at the clock - 6:42 p.m. Jay will be home soon.

And that’s when the panic hits.

The apartment looks like a snack tornado hit it. You shuffle to the kitchen, groaning softly as you gather wrappers and dishes, trying to make it look less like you’ve spent the whole day fighting for survival.

You’re still holding the half-empty chocolate bar when you hear the sound of keys turning in the lock.

Jay’s home.

Your heart skips. You’re not sure why. Maybe it’s because you don’t want him to worry, or maybe because you’re still learning how to let him see you like this.

You take a deep breath and turn toward the door just as it opens.

The door opens with its usual soft click, and Jay steps in with the faint chill of the evening following him. He looks the same as he did this morning: tie slightly loosened, hair a bit tousled from the long day, his expression calm but tired.

“Hey,” he says, voice low as he closes the door behind him. “You’re home?”

You straighten up quickly from the couch, trying to look less… pathetic. “Yeah,” you say, forcing a small smile. “I, um, took the day off.”

His brows rise, just a little. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you answer too fast, then soften your tone. “Just- wasn’t feeling too great this morning. Thought I’d rest.”

Jay nods, slipping off his shoes and hanging his coat neatly on the rack. You watch him quietly; he’s always so methodical, so put-together. Even his small movements carry that calm steadiness that you envy sometimes.

He glances at the coffee table that has the evidence of your day: the empty mug, the snack wrappers you missed, the rumpled blanket. His lips twitch in what might be amusement.

“You’ve had quite the day off, huh?” he teases lightly.

You laugh weakly, rubbing the back of your neck. “Yeah, something like that.”

He doesn’t press, just hums and disappears briefly into the kitchen. You hear the fridge open, then close, and when he returns, he’s holding two bottles of water. He hands you one wordlessly before sitting down on the couch beside you. The space between you is close but not touching, the kind of distance that still feels charged with awareness.

Jay looks at you for a moment, studying your face. “You don’t look too great,” he says, tone gentle but honest. “Want to skip cooking tonight? We can order something.”

You blink, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. “You don’t mind?”

He shakes his head, already pulling out his phone. “Not at all. What do you feel like eating?”

You hesitate. It’s small, but the fact that he’s asking, that he notices something off, makes your chest tighten a little. “Maybe… something warm? Comfort food?”

He glances up, meeting your eyes. “Ramen?”

You smile faintly. “With extra eggs?”

He chuckles under his breath. “Got it.”

Within minutes, he’s ordering, not just ramen, but your favorite side dishes too, and when he thinks you’re not looking, you catch him adding your favorite brand of ice cream to the order. Your heart does a quiet, inconvenient flip.

When the food arrives, you both eat at the low table, knees almost brushing, the warmth from the steaming bowls filling the quiet apartment. You find yourself relaxing more than you expected. Jay keeps the conversation light, talking about a coworker’s mix-up at the office, about a street musician he passed on his way home.

He doesn’t ask about your day again, doesn’t push. And somehow, that feels like the kindest thing of all.

After dinner, he leans back against the couch, looking thoughtful. “Want to watch a movie?” he asks. “Something funny maybe? Or do you want to pick?”

You hesitate, the dull ache in your abdomen starting to pulse again. “I think something light would be good,” you say softly. “Just… to take my mind off things.”

He nods, grabs the remote, and settles beside you as the movie starts to play, some old rom-com you both vaguely remember. The room fills with soft laughter from the screen and the glow of the TV.

And for a while, you almost forget the pain. You almost forget that you’ve been trying to hide it.

Almost.

But as the night deepens, and the cramps return sharper and meaner than before, you find yourself curling slightly inward, pressing your hand against your stomach. You bite your lip to keep from making a sound.

Jay laughs quietly at something on-screen, then pauses. His expression shifts.

He’s noticed.

You tell yourself to stay still. To breathe through it. To not make a sound.

But the pain is relentless tonight. A twisting, heavy ache that makes your eyes sting. You shift slightly, trying to ease it, pressing a pillow against your stomach, willing yourself to focus on the movie instead.

Jay laughs again, but when you don’t respond, his voice fades mid-sentence.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?”

You blink quickly, wiping at the corner of your eye before he can see. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Just… tired.”

He studies you, the glow from the TV reflecting in his eyes. “You sure? You look pale.”

You give a weak smile, trying to deflect. “It’s fine, really. Just a long day.”

Another cramp hits, sharp and mean, and this time, you can’t hide it. Your breath catches, your fingers clench around the blanket. A quiet, involuntary sound escapes you.

Jay immediately pauses the movie. “Hey, wait-” he starts, worry breaking through his calm tone. “You’re not fine. What’s wrong?”

You shake your head quickly, heart pounding with embarrassment. “It’s nothing, really, I just-”

“Y/N.” His voice is firm but gentle. “Tell me.”

You hesitate, eyes dropping to your hands. This isn’t something you ever imagined explaining to him. You’ve only been married a short while, polite dinners, small talk, hesitant touches when passing each other in the hallway. This kind of vulnerability feels too much.

But the pain doesn’t let you stay silent anymore.

“I’m…” You swallow hard. “I’m on my period.”

Jay blinks, processing, and you rush to add, “The cramps just get really bad sometimes. It’s not a big deal, it’ll pass.”

The words sound small, apologetic. You hate that they do.

Jay’s expression softens immediately, the worry deepening into something warmer, gentler. “You should’ve told me earlier,” he says quietly. “You’ve been in pain all day?”

You nod, biting your lip. “It’s not always this bad. I tried to handle it.”

He exhales, the kind of breath that sounds like he’s trying to steady himself. “Okay. Just- stay here for a second, alright?”

Before you can ask what he’s doing, he gets up and disappears into the kitchen. You hear cabinets opening, the faint rush of water. A few minutes later, he returns with a hot water bag, your painkillers, and the half-finished chocolate bar you’d been eating earlier.

You blink at the sight, feeling a sudden lump in your throat. “You didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to,” he says, quiet but certain. “Here.”

He hands you the water bag first, and when you press it against your stomach, the warmth is instant relief. He sits down beside you again, close enough that your knees brush. Then, carefully, he offers you the painkiller with a glass of water. You take it silently, trying not to let your hands shake.

For a while, neither of you speak. The only sound is the movie resuming softly in the background. Then Jay shifts slightly, turning toward you.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s go to bed. You’ll be more comfortable.”

You nod, letting him guide you to your feet. He places a steady hand on your back as you walk, not too close, not too hesitant. Just… warm. Safe.

In your bedroom, he helps you lie down, pulling the blanket up to your shoulders. He sets the chocolates on the nightstand and the hot water bag back on your abdomen. Then, without a word, he turns off the overhead light, leaving only the dim bedside glow.

You watch him quietly, your chest tight. He’s moving around with such quiet care, like he’s afraid to disturb you, like every small gesture matters.

When he finally lies down beside you, there’s a pause. The kind that hums with newness, with the question of is this okay?

You shift closer, unconsciously seeking warmth. Jay hesitates, then carefully wraps an arm around your waist, his palm resting over the blanket.

The heat of his touch seeps through, soothing in a way the hot bag never could. He starts rubbing gentle circles over your stomach, slow and steady.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice a low whisper near your ear. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

Something in you breaks at that. All the quiet strength you’ve been holding onto all day dissolves. Your eyes fill again, but this time, it’s not just from pain. It’s from the softness of it all. His care, his gentleness, the way he’s here even though you never asked him to be.

You turn slightly, burying your face in his chest. His heartbeat is steady under your ear.

Jay’s hand moves up to stroke your hair, his other arm pulling you a little closer. He whispers again, almost absently, “You did well today. Rest now, okay?”

You don’t even realize when your breathing evens out. The pain dulls, your muscles loosen, and the world slips away in the warmth of his arms.

For the first time since the marriage, it doesn’t feel like you’re sharing space with a stranger.

It feels like something is quietly, irrevocably changing.

When you wake, the first thing you notice is the sunlight filtering through the curtains. It was warm, golden, and too soft to belong to early morning. You must’ve slept longer than usual.

The second thing you notice is him.

Jay is lying beside you, still half asleep. His arm is draped loosely around your waist, fingers lightly curled against your hip, his breathing slow and even. His hair falls messily over his forehead, a rare sight, you realize, because you’ve only ever seen him composed, neat, perfectly put together.

You don’t move at first. You just lie there, staring at the way the sunlight touches his face, at how peaceful he looks. It hits you then, how different this feels.

Last night isn’t something you can file away as a small act of kindness. It wasn’t a polite gesture. It was real. Gentle. Human.

And it’s the first time since your arranged marriage that you’ve felt like you belong next to him.

You shift slightly, the movement stirring him awake. His arm tightens instinctively before he blinks, eyes opening slowly. When his gaze lands on you, a soft smile touches his lips, sleepy and unguarded.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough from sleep. “You okay?”

You nod, smiling back. “Better,” you admit. “Much better, actually.”

He looks relieved, really relieved. “Good,” he says quietly. “You scared me last night.”

You flush a little, your cheeks warming. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just didn’t want to make it awkward.”

Jay’s brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face. “Awkward? You were in pain.”

“I know, but…” You hesitate, picking at a thread on the blanket. “We’re still… figuring things out. I didn’t want to dump something like that on you.”

He watches you for a long moment before sighing softly. “You don’t have to hide things from me, you know.” His voice is low, steady, but there’s a hint of something vulnerable beneath it. “I know this marriage wasn’t something either of us planned, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

You look up at him then, really look. There’s no hesitation in his gaze now. Just warmth.

“I know,” you whisper. “And… thank you. For last night.”

He smiles, the kind that starts small and then reaches his eyes. “Anytime.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It’s full of things unsaid, of quiet beginnings. You realize you’re still lying close to him, your fingers brushing his wrist. When he notices, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he shifts closer, his thumb gently tracing the back of your hand.

“You should rest more,” he says softly. “Do you want breakfast? I can make something.”

You chuckle lightly. “You cook?”

“Not well,” he admits, laughing too, “but I can manage pancakes if you promise not to judge.”

You grin, warmth spreading through you, not just from his words but from the effort, the way he’s trying.

“I’d like that,” you say.

He nods and reluctantly pulls away, stretching before heading to the kitchen. You watch him go, heart doing that quiet flutter again. The pain in your stomach is still there, but it’s gentler now, bearable.

You sit up, leaning against the headboard, wrapping the blanket around you. From the kitchen, you hear faint clattering and Jay muttering under his breath, something about burning the first pancake. You smile to yourself.

It’s domestic and imperfect, but it feels right.

When he returns, he’s holding two slightly uneven pancakes on a plate, wearing an expression that’s half proud, half sheepish. “Don’t laugh,” he warns.

You take a bite. It’s not great, but it’s not bad either. You make a show of considering it. “Not bad, chef Jay.”

He smirks, sitting beside you. “You’re lying.”

“Maybe,” you admit with a small laugh, “but I appreciate the effort.”

He looks at you for a long moment then, his gaze soft but searching. “You really do look better,” he says quietly. “I was worried I’d overstep last night.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t. You… made me feel cared for.”

Jay exhales slowly, his shoulders relaxing. “Good. That’s all I wanted.”

You reach out then, it’s instinctive, and place your hand over his. “You did,” you whisper.

The air between you shifts again, delicate and new. Jay squeezes your hand gently, then lets it linger there, a small promise in the space between your palms.

Later, as you finish breakfast, you find yourself leaning against him again on the couch, the same spot where the night before had unravelled into quiet intimacy. The difference now is that the silence feels comfortable, shared.

You glance up at him, your voice soft. “Jay?”

“Hmm?”

“I want to try,” you say, almost a whisper. “With this… marriage. With us.”

His expression changes, surprise first, then something deeper, something tender. “Me too,” he says. “We’ll figure it out together, yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He smiles, slow and genuine, and pulls you gently into his arms again. His hand finds yours, his thumb tracing small circles over your skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And as the morning stretches quietly between you, the soft rustle of the curtains, the faint warmth of sunlight, the fading ache of yesterday, you realize that maybe love doesn’t always begin with fireworks.

Sometimes, it starts with care. With gentle hands, warm blankets, and whispered words in the dark.

And sometimes, it begins with a hot water bag and a boy named Jay who stayed when you needed him most.

Three months later, the apartment feels different.

Not because the furniture has changed or because the sunlight falls any differently through the curtains but because the air itself feels warmer now. Lived-in. Shared.

Your mug sits beside his on the breakfast table, his tie draped over the back of a chair, your sweater hanging from the arm of the couch. Tiny things, scattered like pieces of two lives that have begun to intertwine without either of you noticing exactly when it happened.

Jay hums softly as he moves around the kitchen, hair still damp from his shower, sleeves rolled up, flipping pancakes with surprising ease now. You can’t help but smile. He’s improved a lot since that first disastrous morning.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, catching your gaze with a half-grin. “I told you I’d get better.”

“You did,” you tease. “Still not as good as mine though.”

He laughs, setting a plate in front of you. “One day, I’ll make you admit otherwise.”

You grin, taking a bite, and realize this is what comfort feels like.

The kind that comes from learning someone’s rhythms: how he always hums when he’s focused, how his right eyebrow twitches when he’s pretending not to smile, how he automatically reaches for your hand when you’re crossing the street together.

Jay sits beside you now, sipping his coffee, scrolling lazily through his phone. You lean your head on his shoulder, a soft habit that’s formed naturally over the last few weeks.

“Big day today?” you ask, tracing small circles on the back of his hand.

He shakes his head. “Just meetings. You?”

“Nothing major,” you say. “Though I might stop by the store on my way home.”

He nods. “Need me to pick you up later?”

You smile. “You’re too good to me, Jay.”

He shrugs, pretending nonchalance, but his lips curve up. “You make it easy.”

You stay like that for a while. The quiet between you filled with morning sounds and a comfort that no longer feels new but beautifully familiar.

Then Jay sets down his cup, glances at you, and tilts his head slightly. “Hey,” he says softly, “are you feeling okay today? No cramps or anything?”

You blink, surprised. “You remembered?”

He nods, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Of course. You looked miserable last time. I told myself I’d make sure you never had to go through that alone again.”

Your chest tightens, eyes stinging a little with warmth. “You really didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to,” he says simply, the same words he used that night.

It hits you again how steady he is, not loud about his care, not dramatic. Just there. Always there.

You reach out and cup his cheek lightly, your thumb brushing against his skin. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

Jay smiles, soft, real. “Maybe I do.”

You lean forward, and this time, you don’t hesitate. You kiss him. It is a low, unhurried, full of everything you haven’t said in words. When you pull back, he’s still smiling, his hand finding its familiar place against your waist.

“I’m glad we’re doing this,” you whisper.

“Me too,” he says. “I think we’re getting pretty good at it.”

You laugh, resting your forehead against his. “Yeah. Pretty good.”

Outside, the day begins, the distant noise of the street, the smell of coffee, the gentle hum of life continuing. Inside, everything feels still, safe, and right.

And as Jay presses a quick kiss to your temple before heading out, you realize that love didn’t rush in all at once.

It grew slowly, quietly, through care, through laughter, through the kind of mornings that feel ordinary but are anything but.

The kind of love that started with a small act of kindness on a painful night and became the softest, surest part of your life.

The end~