The days that followed moved like honey in warm sun.
Jack kept coming by. Sometimes with an excuse—a new part for the car, a tune-up, a loose rattle. Other times, he came with nothing in his hands but everything in his eyes.
He didn't speak much. But Ellie didn't need him to.
She read aloud on the porch while he worked. Sometimes poetry, sometimes just bits of her own writing—fragments of her life she rarely shared. Jack never interrupted. But every now and then, she'd look up to find him watching her like she was the first rain after a long drought.
One evening, the air shifted.
Thick with August heat. The sky bruised lavender and gold.
Jack was under the hood again, sleeves rolled up, sweat glistening at the base of his neck. Ellie stood near the porch rail, arms crossed, her gaze lingering.
"I ever tell you about my ex?" he asked suddenly, voice quiet.
Ellie blinked. "No."
Jack wiped his hands on a rag. Didn't look at her. Just stared at the engine like it held the answers.
"She was loud. Wild. The kind of love that burns everything in its path."
Ellie said nothing, only listened.
"I thought that's what love was supposed to feel like. Fire. But it left me... hollow."
He finally looked at her. "You feel like something I could build instead of survive."
Ellie walked toward him. Slow. Barefoot. Grounded.
She stopped just in front of him, only inches between them.
"I've only ever loved people who made me feel small," she said. "But you... you don't take up my space. You fill it."
Jack's eyes moved over her face—gentle, reverent.
"Ellie."
It was the way he said her name—like a question, like a wish, like a prayer.
She reached up, fingers resting just below his jaw. Her thumb brushed his cheek, slow as dusk.
"I want you to kiss me," she whispered. "But only if it's not just need. Only if it's want."
Jack's hand came up, cupping the back of her neck, rough palm against her skin. He leaned in—slow, like a man who didn't trust the ground beneath him.
And when his lips touched hers, it wasn't greedy.
It was quiet.
Sure.
His mouth moved against hers like he was learning her. Like every part of him wanted to make room for the softness, the grace, the ache he had tried to bury.
She melted into him, her hands slipping under the collar of his shirt, fingers brushing warm skin. Their kiss deepened—not rushed, but hungry. Years of silence, grief, longing—all pouring into this one touch.
When they pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, breathing heavy but steady, Jack whispered, "You undo me."
Ellie smiled softly. "Good."
They didn't go inside.
Not yet.
They stood there as the sun set around them, kissing again and again, slow and aching, like they had all the time in the world.
Because some love stories don't start with fireworks.
They begin with a long look,
a lingering touch,
and the decision to finally let someone see you.