The night had curled in close around the farmhouse.
The windows were open. The crickets sang like background music for something sacred. And inside, Ellie stood at the doorway, watching Jack as he took off his boots by the kitchen steps.
He hadn't planned to stay.
But they both knew he wasn't leaving.
Not tonight.
Jack looked up, eyes shadowed and soft. She stepped forward—barefoot, heart open. She reached for his hand and led him wordlessly through the quiet house, past worn rugs and oil lamps, to her bedroom lit only by the glow of a single bedside bulb.
She closed the door behind them.
And for a breathless moment, they simply stood there.
No rush.
No noise.
Just breath.
"I've never done this slow before," Jack admitted, voice rough and low.
Ellie stepped closer, fingers reaching for the hem of his shirt. "Then let's take our time."
She pulled his shirt up gently. He raised his arms, and she peeled it off like opening a gift. His chest was all sun and strength, scarred in quiet places. She traced one with her finger. He caught her wrist gently and kissed her palm.
Then she stepped back, watching his eyes as she slowly unbuttoned her dress—one loop at a time, the fabric slipping from her shoulders, then down over her hips. She stood in soft cotton underwear, chest rising and falling in time with his.
Jack's gaze never left hers.
"You're beautiful," he whispered, like he didn't know how else to say it.
Ellie moved toward him, sliding her arms around his waist. He pulled her in—skin to skin. His mouth brushed her temple, then her cheek, then finally her lips, slower than breath.
The kiss deepened.
Her fingers in his hair. His hands tracing the small of her back. Each touch a sentence. Each sigh an answer.
They moved to the bed together, tangled in warmth and silence. Jack hovered over her, his mouth moving along her collarbone, down her sternum, every kiss asking, Are you sure?
And every breath she gave him answered, Yes.
He moved slowly. Tenderly. Like a man building something sacred with his hands and body.
Their bodies came together like they had always known how—nothing rushed, nothing loud. Just the kind of closeness that rewrites you, molecule by molecule.
And when it was over, and she lay curled against his chest, Jack whispered into her hair:
"I didn't know I still had this in me."
Ellie smiled, kissing the place over his heart. "You always did. You just forgot."
He held her tighter, the fan above them humming low, the night wrapping them in warmth and new beginning.
That night, they didn't d
ream.
They didn't need to.
They were already living in one.