Time didn't rush in with answers.
It moved slowly, measured in mornings where Brinley woke without the familiar knot in her chest, in evenings where she noticed she wasn't checking her phone as often. Jaxson didn't text every day. Sometimes not at all. When he did, it was simple.
Hope today's kind to you.
Brandon said you had a long shift. Get some rest.
No follow-ups. No pressure to respond.
That, more than anything, unsettled her.
She was folding laundry when Brandon stopped by a few days later, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, eyes sharp in that way that meant he was paying attention to more than he was saying.
"He's been around," Brandon said casually.
Brinley didn't look up. "Around how?"
"Fixing stuff. Carrying groceries for Mrs. Collins. Helped Dad with the fence."
She stilled, a towel clenched in her hands. "He didn't tell me that."
"No," Brandon said. "He wouldn't."
Silence stretched.
"I warned him," Brandon added. "You know that. Told him if he hurt you again, "
"I know," she said softly.
Brandon sighed, the edge dulling. "He's different. Not fixed. Not suddenly brave. Just… trying in the right direction."
She met her brother's gaze then. "I don't need you to protect me from him anymore."
That earned her a long look. "You sure?"
"I need you to trust me instead."
Brandon nodded slowly. "Alright. But I'm still watching."
That evening, Brinley ran into Jaxson at the grocery store.
Literally.
She rounded the corner too fast and bumped into his chest, the cart rattling between them. Her hands came up instinctively, resting flat against him for half a second before she pulled back like she'd been burned.
"Sorry," they said at the same time.
He stepped back immediately, giving her space. "You okay?"
"Yeah. I just, wasn't paying attention."
He smiled faintly. Not amused. Just warm. "I do that too."
They stood there awkwardly, the hum of freezers filling the space where words wanted to be.
"I fixed the sink," he said finally. "Just in case it starts acting up again, the valve's stiff. You might have to twist harder than you think."
She nodded. "Thanks. It hasn't leaked since."
"Good."
Another pause.
"I'm grabbing dinner," she said, surprising herself.
He gestured to his basket. "Same."
They walked the next aisle together, not close, not far. Comfortable in the shared quiet. He didn't reach for her. Didn't brush her arm. He let the moment be what it was.
At the checkout, he paid for her milk without comment.
"You didn't have to," she said.
"I wanted to."
She didn't argue.
Outside, the air was cold and sharp. He held the door open, waited while she loaded her groceries.
"I'm not asking for more," he said suddenly. "Just so you know."
She looked at him then, really looked—at the way he stood like he was bracing himself not to step forward.
"I know," she said. "That's why this feels… different."
Something flickered in his eyes. Hope, maybe. Or relief.
He nodded once. "I'll see you around, Brin."
"Yeah," she said. "You will."
He drove off, and she stood there longer than necessary, her breath fogging the air.
For the first time, she didn't feel like she was standing still.
She felt like she was moving, slowly, carefully, toward something she wasn't afraid of anymore.