"And before you spiral, he didn't say much," Brandon continued.
Brinley's fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. "You already said that."
"Because it matters," he replied. He pushed off the railing, pacing once like he needed movement to organize his thoughts. "I expected a fight. Or excuses. Or that whole 'I love her, I'm trying' speech."
"And?" she asked quietly.
"And I didn't get any of that."
Brandon stopped in front of her. "He asked one thing. One. He asked if you were okay."
Her chest compressed, the air leaving her slower than it should've. "That's it?"
"That's it," Brandon said. "Didn't ask what you said. Didn't ask what I thought. Didn't even ask if I hated him."
She swallowed. "What did you say?"
"I told him you were standing on your own feet and didn't need anyone rushing you." Brandon held her gaze. "You know what he did?"
She shook her head.
"He nodded. Said, 'Good.'"
Brinley looked away, staring at the cracked concrete beneath their feet. The silence stretched, filled with everything she didn't want to feel and everything she couldn't stop herself from feeling anyway.
"He told me," Brandon went on, softer now, "that he wasn't going to put you in the middle anymore. That whatever happened between him and me didn't matter as long as you felt safe."
Safe.
The word lodged in her throat.
"I warned him," Brandon added. "Told him if he hurt you again, "
"I know," she said gently. "You always do."
Brandon exhaled. "And for once, it didn't feel like a warning was needed."
They stood there, the weight of it settling between them. Brandon wasn't relaxed, not fully, but the sharp edge she'd grown used to was dulled, replaced by something like cautious acceptance.
"I'm not saying I trust him," Brandon said finally. "I'm saying… he's not crossing lines right now."
Brinley nodded. "Neither am I."
That night, alone in her apartment, Brinley replayed the day in fragments. The absence of a text. Nitika's knowing smile. Brandon's careful words. None of it felt dramatic. None of it felt like the old emotional whiplash she'd lived inside for so long.
It felt slow.
She made dinner, ate half of it, wrapped the rest for tomorrow. She showered, letting the water ground her, washing away the buzzing tension she'd carried for weeks. When she climbed into bed, she expected her mind to spiral the way it always did when things went quiet.
It didn't.
Instead, she thought about lines.
The ones she'd drawn. The ones he hadn't crossed.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Her heart jumped before she could stop it.
One text.
Jaxson: Brandon said you had a long day. Just wanted you to know I hope you're resting. No need to reply.
She stared at the screen for a long moment.
No question. No pull. No expectation.
She set the phone face down and lay back, eyes on the ceiling, pulse finally slowing.
Across town, Jaxson sat in his truck outside his place longer than necessary, phone resting on the console. Sending that message had taken him twenty minutes of rewriting and deleting. He'd almost scrapped it altogether.
Almost.
He reminded himself of what mattered: showing up didn't always mean being seen. Sometimes it meant stepping back and trusting time to do what force never could.
Inside his apartment, the sink he'd fixed earlier in the week still held. No drip. No reminder that he'd been there.
That felt right.