Brinley didn't realize how much she'd started expecting him until he didn't show up.
It was late afternoon, the sky washed pale with winter light, and she was locking the door to the shop when the thought hit her, He should've been here by now. Not because he promised. Not because he said he would be. But because lately, Jaxson had simply… appeared. Never announced. Never demanded. Just present in the margins of her life like he belonged there without claiming the space.
She shook the thought away and turned the key, annoyed at herself more than anything. She didn't need to rely on him. That was the point of the boundary she'd drawn. He was allowed near, but not close. Not yet.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket as she stepped off the curb.
Jaxson: Hey. I'm running late. If you're already home, I'll catch you another day.
That was it. No explanation. No apology. No pressure.
Her chest tightened anyway.
She typed back before she could overthink it.
Brinley: I'm still at the shop.
A pause. Then:
Jaxson: Okay. I'll be there in ten.
He pulled up nine minutes later.
Brinley watched from the sidewalk as he got out of the truck, hands in his jacket pockets, posture easy but restrained. He didn't rush her. Didn't assume anything. Just nodded once, a quiet greeting that somehow felt heavier than words.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
They walked side by side toward her car, the silence between them not awkward, but full. Loaded with everything they weren't saying.
"I can drive you," he offered, already knowing the answer he might get.
She hesitated, then nodded. "Okay."
That was new.
Jaxson didn't comment on it. Didn't smile like he'd won something. He just unlocked the passenger door and waited until she was settled before moving around to the driver's side.
The truck smelled faintly of coffee and winter air. Familiar. Safe. And that realization unsettled her more than it should have.
They drove in quiet for a few minutes, the road humming beneath the tires. Brinley watched the trees blur past and wondered when she'd started feeling calmer instead of guarded around him.
"You don't have to" she started, then stopped.
He glanced over. "What?"
"Whatever you're doing," she said softly. "You don't have to keep doing it."
He didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was steady. "I know."
That was all.
When they pulled into her driveway, he cut the engine but didn't turn toward her. He stared straight ahead like he was grounding himself, anchoring something inside.
"There's a loose board on your back step," he said. "I noticed it last time."
She frowned. "I didn't say anything about that."
"I know."
He got out before she could respond, already moving toward the house. Brinley followed, confusion trailing behind her.
He knelt on the step, tugged the board loose, and reached into his truck for tools she hadn't known were there. He worked quietly, efficiently, like this was simply something that needed doing, not a favor meant to earn him anything.
She stood in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, watching.
"You don't have to fix everything," she said.
"I'm not," he replied. "Just this."
The words landed heavier than they should have.
When he was done, he stood, brushing sawdust from his hands. He didn't step closer. Didn't linger.
"That should hold," he said. "If it gives you trouble again, tell me."
She nodded, throat tight.
"Thanks, Jaxson."
He met her eyes then,really looked at her, and something unspoken passed between them. Regret. Want. Care held back by respect.
"I'll head out," he said gently.
She didn't ask him to stay.
But she didn't turn away either.
As his truck disappeared down the road, Brinley stayed on the porch, fingers curled around the railing. Her heart wasn't racing. It wasn't aching. It was… steady.
That night, she lay in bed replaying the day—not the things he'd done, but the things he hadn't. He hadn't pushed. Hadn't questioned her boundaries. Hadn't tried to reclaim something she wasn't ready to give.
For the first time since everything fell apart, she wondered if trust didn't come back in grand gestures, but in quiet, patient ones that asked for nothing in return.
Across town, Jaxson sat on the edge of his bed, boots still on, staring at the floor.
Every instinct in him wanted more. Wanted to tell her how much it cost him to hold back. How every small moment with her felt like balancing on the edge of something he could lose forever.
But he stayed where she put him.
Because loving her meant proving, not promising, that he could.
And somewhere between the quiet drive, the loose board, and the way she'd looked at him like she was finally seeing him clearly, both of them felt it.
Something fragile was forming.
Not forgiveness.
Not love reborn.
But the ground beneath it,slowly, carefully, becoming steady again.