The next day felt different, though Brinley couldn't put her finger on why. Maybe it was the quiet after the storm of her emotions, or maybe it was knowing that Jaxson had been there, without demands, without drama.
She was sitting at the kitchen table, sorting through bills, when she heard the familiar rumble of his truck outside. She paused, holding her breath for just a moment, wondering if she was imagining it. But no, there he was, stepping out calmly, a bag of groceries in hand.
"I thought you might need a few things for the week," he said, voice soft, almost casual. "Nothing fancy. Just… practical."
Brinley blinked. She wanted to protest, to insist she didn't need him to do this, but the quiet sincerity in his tone made her stop. "Thanks," she murmured, letting the words out before she could stop herself.
He set the groceries down on the counter, moved efficiently, and didn't linger with unnecessary conversation. He noticed the little things, the slightly crooked vase on the shelf, the stack of papers by the sink, and adjusted them without saying a word.
Brinley found herself watching him, heart unexpectedly calm. These small, unnoticed acts, these tiny moments of care, were speaking louder than anything he could have said.
"I've got to head out," he said after a few minutes. "But… I'll be around. No expectations."
She nodded again, understanding more than she could admit. And as she watched him leave, she realized something profound: trust wasn't built in dramatic gestures or confessions. It was built in the quiet, consistent presence of someone who refuses to let you down.
For the rest of the day, she moved through her routines with a new awareness. Every small thing Jaxson had done, from fixing the sink to bringing groceries, was a thread, weaving slowly, imperceptibly, into the fabric of her trust.
And though she didn't yet know how or when it would fully form, she allowed herself, just for a moment, to feel safe.