Chapter 5 MENDING THE CRACKS

Mia stayed.

Not just in the physical sense, though her name was still on the motel ledger and her favorite stool at the diner still bore the imprint of countless mornings.

She stayed in the way she leaned into the life unfolding here, letting herself belong, letting herself be loved-even if it scared her.

Jackson stayed too, though there were days when fear clawed at the back of his throat and pride told him to keep his distance.

He stayed in the quiet way he showed up-with coffee, with silence, with an extra jacket draped over Mia's shoulders when the ocean wind turned sharp.

They were still a little broken.

Still a little scared.

But somehow, they were broken and scared together now. And that made all the difference.

The days blurred into something gentle.

Jackson taught Mia how to drive his old pickup, the one that rattled like a bag of bolts over every bump.

She stalled out three times and nearly took out a mailbox, laughing so hard she cried.

Jackson just shook his head, biting back a smile, and said, "We'll call it character-building."

Mia spent lazy afternoons sketching in the sand with a stick, drawing pictures that the tide would carry away.

Jackson would watch from a few feet back, hands in his pockets, memorizing the way her hair danced in the breeze, the way her laughter softened the hardest parts of him.

Trust wasn't rebuilt in grand gestures.

It was stitched back together with small things.

Mia leaving her journal open on the porch steps, not hiding her thoughts.

Jackson offering her his last piece of pie without a word.

Mia reaching for his hand without hesitation.

Jackson not pulling away.

One evening, Jackson found her in Nancy's kitchen, elbows deep in flour and frustration.

"I can't get the crust right," she huffed, brushing a stray curl out of her face with a flour-dusted hand.

Jackson leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, smiling softly. "You know, most people just buy pie crust."

"I want to learn," Mia said stubbornly, setting her jaw. "You can't buy everything."

He stepped closer, reaching around her to guide her hands.

"You're overworking it. Gentle. Like you're convincing it to trust you, not wrestling it into submission."

Mia laughed, a sound that filled the tiny kitchen like sunlight.

"Funny. Feels a lot like life."

Jackson looked at her then, really looked.

"You getting better at trusting?"

She met his gaze, something vulnerable flickering in her eyes.

"Yeah," she whispered. "I think I am."

They baked the pie together. It was lopsided and a little burnt on one side.

It was perfect.

Nights were the hardest.

Mia still woke sometimes with dreams she couldn't quite outrun-dreams of glass walls and locked doors, of being a girl trapped in a life she didn't choose.

Jackson heard her once, crying softly behind the thin motel walls.

He knocked, once.

When she didn't answer, he slid down the outside of her door and just sat there, back against the wood, heartbeat steady as the tide.

No demands.

No questions.

Just presence.

When Mia finally opened the door sometime after midnight, eyes puffy, she found him half-asleep, chin tucked to his chest.

She sank down beside him without a word.

He opened one eye and offered his hand.

She took it.

Sometimes, love didn't need language.

Sometimes, it was just showing up and refusing to leave.

Mia asked him one afternoon, as they sat on the beach with sandwiches and nowhere to be:

"Why are you so patient with me?"

Jackson shrugged, tossing a crust to a seagull.

"Because someone should have been, a long time ago."

She blinked against the sudden sting in her eyes.

He turned to her then, voice low and sure.

"And because you're not the only one learning how to stay."

As summer deepened, so did they.

Mia painted a mural on the side of the old bait shop-a riot of color and hope that made the whole town stop and stare.

Jackson carved her a driftwood frame, hands rough and careful, smoothing every splinter so it wouldn't hurt her.

She wore one of his old sweatshirts sometimes, sleeves swallowing her hands.

He kept a pressed flower she gave him tucked in his wallet, right behind his fishing license.

Little by little, their lives threaded together-messy, imperfect, real.

One night, they sat on the hood of Jackson's truck, watching a meteor shower streak across the ink-black sky.

Mia leaned her head on his shoulder, feeling the steady thud of his heart.

"Promise me something?" she murmured.

"Anything," he said, without hesitation.

"If I ever get scared again... if I ever try to run... just-"

She hesitated, heart pounding against her ribs.

"-just remind me who I am. Who I'm becoming."

Jackson tilted his head until his forehead rested against hers.

"You're not who you ran from," he whispered. "You're who you choose to be. Every day."

She closed her eyes, letting the words sink deep, anchoring her in a way nothing else ever had.

They stayed there until the last meteor burned out.

Until the stars stitched themselves into something whole again.

Until the night folded them into itself like a secret too beautiful to shout.

Mia and Jackson weren't healed.

Not completely.

Maybe not ever.

But they were healing.

They were choosing each other, day by messy, miraculous day.

And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.

More than enough.

It was everything.

                         

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