Chapter Twenty - Two: Learning to Dance in the Rain

The first storm hit two weeks after the wedding.

It wasn't the kind that knocked down trees or filled the gutters. It was quieter. Slower. The kind that brews in silence and rises with the tension of learning how to share a life, fully.

It started with small things—Jack forgetting to pick up flour, Ellie leaving muddy boots in the hallway. But small things build when left unsaid. And by the time the clouds rolled in one late June afternoon, they were sitting on opposite ends of the living room, both trying not to say the wrong thing.

"I just need space when I'm thinking," Jack said finally.

"And I need to not feel like I'm invisible when you're inside your own head," Ellie replied, softer than she meant to.

Jack stood. "I'm not used to... explaining myself."

"I'm not asking for perfect," Ellie said. "Just effort."

The thunder outside matched the mood. Ellie went to the kitchen, trying to shake the weight of it. When she turned back around, Jack was gone.

For an hour, she sat alone. The rain started. Heavy, then steady.

But then the door opened.

Jack was soaked, holding something behind his back.

"What are you doing?" Ellie asked, her voice cautious.

He pulled forward a bouquet—not store-bought, but picked from the field behind the barn. Wild. Imperfect. Real.

"I don't always know how to do this," he said. "But I'm learning. I want to learn—with you."

Ellie smiled, tears mixing with laughter. She pulled him close, drenched clothes and all.

They danced in the kitchen to the old blues radio. Barefoot. Wet. Alive.

Because love wasn't about not fighting. It was about finding your way back, again and again, until coming home became a habit.

And in that little kitchen, during that summer rain, they found their rhythm—step by honest step.