Time didn't fix things.
It revealed them.
Brinley noticed it in pieces at first, small enough to miss if she hadn't been watching so closely. Jaxson didn't announce himself anymore. He just… appeared. At the hardware store when she was reaching for a bag of soil she couldn't quite lift on her own. At the high school football game, standing two rows back, hands in his pockets, never assuming the seat beside her was his.
He always asked.
And when she said no, he accepted it without a flicker of disappointment crossing his face.
That was the hardest part.
One afternoon, her porch light flicked on just before dusk. A box sat at the top of the steps, tomatoes, a loaf of bread from the bakery in town, and a folded note she didn't open right away.
She didn't have to.
She knew his handwriting now.
Saw these and thought of you. No need to call.
He didn't wait for thanks.
Days passed. Then weeks.
Jaxson became dependable in a way that didn't demand reward. He fixed the loose hinge on her gate without mentioning it. Checked her tire pressure when he noticed her car pulling slightly to the right. When she caught a cold, he dropped soup at her door and left before she could open it.
No pressure. No expectations. No rehearsed apologies.
Just presence.
Brinley found herself thinking about him when he wasn't there, and that scared her more than when he was. Because this wasn't heat or urgency or longing sharp enough to cut.
This was slow.
This was settling.
One evening, she joined him on the tailgate of his truck, the fields stretching wide and quiet around them. Crickets sang. The sky faded from blue to charcoal.
He didn't reach for her.
"I'm not ready," she said suddenly, the words tumbling out before she could soften them.
He nodded. "I know."
"You're not waiting for me to change my mind?"
"No." He looked out at the horizon. "I'm just… here."
Her chest tightened.
That was it. That was the thing she hadn't known how to name.
He wasn't hovering. He wasn't chasing. He wasn't pulling.
He was staying.
Across town, Brandon watched the same thing from a distance. He saw how Jaxson kept his hands to himself. How he left when Brinley looked tired. How he never raised his voice, never cornered her with feelings she hadn't asked for.
One night, Brandon caught Jaxson outside the grocery store.
"You're different," Brandon said bluntly.
Jaxson shrugged. "I should've been this way all along."
Brandon studied him, then nodded once. Not approval. Not forgiveness.
Permission to continue.
Later that night, Brinley lay awake, staring at the ceiling, heart heavy in a way that wasn't painful, just full. She realized something she hadn't wanted to admit.
She wasn't guarding herself from Jaxson anymore.
She was guarding herself from how deeply she already cared.
And that truth settled quietly beside her, patient as the man who'd taught her what staying really looked like.