Sleep came late, shallow and restless.
Brinley lay on her side, the house quiet around her, listening to the faint tick of the hallway clock. Every sound felt amplified , the shift of sheets, the hum of the heater, the distant memory of Jaxson's eyes across the parking lot. She wasn't replaying words. There hadn't been many. It was the absence of them that lingered.
He hadn't asked for anything.
That realization settled deeper than she expected.
By morning, the sky was overcast, the kind of gray that softened edges instead of darkening them. Brinley dressed slowly, choosing comfort over polish, and stepped into the kitchen where her mother was already nursing a cup of coffee.
"Busy day?" her mom asked, casual but observant.
"Normal," Brinley said. It wasn't a lie.
Her mother nodded, letting the answer stand. That, too, felt like restraint.
At Fast Track Music, the day unfolded in small, manageable pieces. Lessons rotated in and out. A delivery arrived late. Nitika worked beside her without commentary, just quiet efficiency and the occasional shared look when a customer overcomplicated something simple.
Mid-morning, Brinley noticed the chair near the repair bench had been fixed.
The wobble was gone.
She stopped short, fingers brushing the backrest. It had been loose for weeks. Not enough to complain about , just enough to be annoying.
She didn't have to ask who had done it.
Jaxson was in the back, sleeves rolled up, focused on restringing a guitar. He hadn't announced himself. Hadn't come looking for her. He was simply… there. Doing something useful. Something small.
When he glanced up and caught her noticing, he didn't smile. Didn't speak. He just gave a brief nod and went back to his work.
No credit claimed.
Something in her chest shifted , not warmth, not hope, but recognition.
This was what he'd meant.
Around lunchtime, Brandon stopped by with a folder tucked under his arm, wedding stress written all over his face.
"Seating chart drama," he muttered. "Apparently Aunt Claire refuses to sit near the speakers."
Brinley laughed softly, flipping through the pages with him. Jaxson stayed where he was, listening without inserting himself, even when Brandon clearly wanted his opinion.
Later, as Brandon left, he paused and looked between them.
"Thanks for helping out," he said to Jaxson. Then, to Brinley, quieter, "You okay?"
She nodded. And for once, she meant it.
The afternoon slowed. Rain tapped lightly against the windows. Brinley worked through inventory updates, grounding herself in numbers and lists. When she needed a box lifted, it was already done. When a cable went missing, it reappeared neatly coiled on the counter.
No hovering. No watching her reaction.
Just presence without demand.
At closing, Brinley reached for her jacket and found it folded neatly over the chair , the fixed chair, nstead of where she'd tossed it earlier.
She hesitated, then looked at Jaxson.
"Thank you," she said. Simple. Measured.
He met her eyes, steady as ever. "You're welcome."
Nothing else followed.
Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the pavement dark and reflective. They walked to their cars separately, the space between them intentional. Before he opened his door, Jaxson paused.
"I'll be around tomorrow," he said. Not a question. Not an invitation. Just information.
Brinley nodded. "Okay."
Driving home, she realized something that made her grip the steering wheel a little tighter.
She didn't feel pulled.
She felt… supported.
That night, back in bed, the same quiet surrounded her, but it felt different now. The memories weren't heavy. They were structured. Held in place by actions, not promises.
Trust wasn't built in grand gestures.
It was built in chairs that didn't wobble anymore. In jackets folded without comment. In someone staying close enough to matter , and far enough to breathe.
And for the first time in a long while, Brinley wondered not if she was ready…
…but how long it had been since someone had waited this well.