The truck rolled down the two-lane road with the windows cracked, late afternoon sun slanting across the dashboard. Dust lifted behind them like a quiet witness, then settled again. Brinley watched the fence posts blur past, counting them without realizing she was doing it.
Jaxson didn't rush the silence.
That was new.
His hands stayed steady on the wheel, forearms relaxed, no nervous tapping, no glances meant to pull something out of her. He drove like he had nowhere else to be and all the time in the world to get there.
Brinley noticed.
It unsettled her more than his words ever had.
When they pulled into town, he didn't ask where she wanted to go. He didn't assume. He slowed near the diner, then the coffee shop across the street, eyes flicking to her just once.
"You hungry?" he asked, simple. No expectation.
She nodded. "A little."
"Okay."
That was it. No smile meant to soften her. No teasing. Just acceptance.
Inside the diner, Jaxson held the door open and stepped back, letting her go first. He chose the booth across from her, not beside her. Another small thing. Another quiet choice.
They talked about nothing at first. Work. The weather turning colder. A stray dog someone had been feeding behind the feed store.
Normal things.
Safe things.
But Brinley felt the weight beneath it all, the things not being said pressing softly against the space between them. She studied his face when he listened, really listened. No impatience. No rehearsed responses.
When the waitress brought their food, Jaxson thanked her, then waited until she walked away before speaking again.
"I meant what I said," he told Brinley, voice low. "About earning it. I'm not asking you to trust me now."
She met his eyes. "And you're okay with that?"
He didn't answer right away.
"I don't get to be okay or not," he said finally. "I just get to do better."
Something in her chest shifted. Not relief. Not forgiveness.
Recognition.
After dinner, he walked her to her car. The sun had dipped lower, painting the sky in bruised purples and gold. Brandon's truck sat across the lot, unmistakable.
Brinley stiffened without meaning to.
Jaxson noticed.
"I'll talk to him," he said quietly.
She shook her head. "You don't have to."
"I know. But I want to."
Brandon was leaning against his truck, arms crossed, jaw tight. Protective. Watchful. But not storming.
Progress, Brinley thought.
Jaxson stopped a few feet away. Didn't crowd him. Didn't posture.
"I'm not here to fight," Jaxson said. "Just to say I'm taking this slow. On her terms."
Brandon studied him for a long moment. Then his gaze flicked to Brinley. She gave a small nod.
"All I care about," Brandon said, "is that you don't hurt her again."
Jaxson didn't argue. "I know."
That was all.
Later, when Brinley was alone, she sat on the edge of her bed, shoes still on, replaying the day in pieces. The way he waited. The way he didn't touch her. The way he stayed.
She hated how easily her heart leaned toward that steadiness.
Hated how much she wanted to believe it.
But for the first time since everything fell apart, she didn't feel like she was chasing something that kept running away.
She felt like she was standing still.
And somehow, he was still there.