No “I’m sorry too.”
Not even a damn emoji.
Just a weather alert and a text from her mom.
He’s not calling.
Her stomach dropped.
For the first time in a long time, Claire felt the shift—the undeniable realization that she was wrong. And not in a petty, temporary way. But in the kind of way that might have consequences.
She laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, every conversation of the night replaying like a bad rerun she couldn’t turn off. Her words. His. The way he didn’t raise his voice, but still cut deeper than anyone else ever had. Because he didn’t say it to hurt her.
He said it because it was true.
She remembered the way his voice cracked when he said, “Everything’s not about you.”
How the wind moved around him while she slammed the door.
How he stayed.
How she left.
Claire opened her texts, pulled up Jaxon’s name, and hovered.
“It’s been two hours,” she whispered. “He has to want to talk to me.”
But as the screen stayed blank, so did her hope.
41
Fault Lines
Jaxonlayinbed,arms folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the light filtering through the curtains. The morning sun was soft—but nothing about the thoughts running through his mind felt gentle.
What the hell happened?
He replayed last night again, frame by frame. Her voice. His restraint. The swing creaking in the silence. That final glance before she disappeared around the side of the house like she was walking out of more than just a room.
“How did I not see that sooner?” he muttered into the emptiness.
And then he answered his own question.
There hadn’t been space for it to show.
Not once in the last two weeks had Claire been met with resistance. Every plan had been hers. Every meal tailored. Every moment molded to fit what she wanted. No reason for conflict when you’re getting your way. And the first time something didn't revolve around her? She ran.
That’s what stuck with him most.
She left.
Not a pause. Not a conversation. Just... walked out.
He stood from the bed, heavy, the weight of unspoken truth clinging to his shoulders. The shower was hotter than usual—longer too—but it didn’t rinse away the disappointment. It just gave it room to echo.
When he stepped out and grabbed his phone, the screen lit up.
Two missed calls. Four messages.
