“Why?” The question hangs in the space between them, heavy and edged with memory.
Claire shifts on her feet. “I just wanted to see how you’ve been. It’s been a while.”
He nods, guarded. “It’s been four years, Claire. Since Atlanta.”
“I know,” she says. “Sara told me about everything. Congratulations on the promotion... and thank you—for what you did that night at the restaurant.”
“It was the least I could do,” Jaxon replies. “Seeing her... it brought me a little peace. Closure, I guess.”
“I understand,” she says, and for a second, the silence between them says everything they can’t.
Then—little footsteps patter across the deck.
“Daddy, when are we gonna eat?” a young voice interrupts, full of impatience and innocence.
“In a minute, baby. It’s almost done,” Jaxon says, crouching slightly to meet her eyes.
The girl looks up at Claire with wide-eyed curiosity. “Who are you?”
“I’m just an old friend of your dad’s,” Claire replies, kneeling to her level. “It’s nice to meet you, sweetheart.”
The little girl gives a toothy grin before darting off to rejoin the other kids in the yard. Claire watches her go, heart tugging with something unfamiliar.
“I always knew you’d make a great dad someday,” she says quietly.
Jaxon smiles. “Thank you. She’s... she’s everything.”
“She really is.”
He looks back at Claire, and for a moment, neither one knows what to say. So much said in so few words.
“Do you want to stay for dinner?” he offers.
Claire hesitates, eyes flicking to the yard, then back to him. “I’d love to, but I’ve got somewhere to be. I just... I wanted to pop in. Say hi. That’s all.”
He nods, understanding. “Well, don’t be a stranger.”
She takes a step back, the moment slipping through their fingers. “It was good seeing you, Jaxon. Take care of yourself... and that precious daughter of yours.”
“You too, Claire.”
And just like that—she’s gone again.
A little while later, the steaks are done. The table’s full. Plates clatter, drinks are poured, and the sound of stories being told drowns out the quiet ache that still hums under Jaxon’s ribs.
He looks toward the spot where she stood. That same breeze that used to tangle her hair now ruffles the corner of the tablecloth.
He smiles, slow and grateful. Not because he’s heartbroken.
But because she came back—for a moment.
Because sometimes goodbye doesn’t sound like slammed doors or shouted regrets.
Sometimes it’s just a whisper.
Thank you. Take care.
His smile begins to fade as a strange, echoing sound cuts through the laughter. A shrill, distant tone—growing louder, pulling him back to the now.
