Mira didn't usually get nervous around men. But Jace wasn't usual.
She hadn't seen him in two days, and somehow that absence felt louder than their silence used to.
By the third day, she cracked.
Mira: You alive, or did a blender finally take you out?
Jace: No blender casualties yet. Just needed a couple days to think.
That response made her stomach twist.
Mira: About what?
A pause. Longer than she liked.
Jace: Us. You. Me.
She didn't know how to answer that. So she didn't—not immediately.
Later that night, she found herself standing outside his shop again, her hand hovering near the door, nerves threading through her like static. She pushed it open.
The place was dark. Closed. Of course it was.
But he was still there.
Jace stood in the back near the repair table, hoodie sleeves shoved up, elbow-deep in an old typewriter. Something about the way he looked up when he saw her—like he'd been expecting her but hadn't hoped—made her chest ache.
"I was just thinking about you," he said quietly.
"That line probably works better when you say it first," she replied, voice shakier than she meant.
He smiled faintly, leaning back against the workbench. "You always come here when you want answers."
"No," she said. "I come here when I don't want to lie to myself."
That seemed to catch him off guard. He stepped closer, wiping his hands on a rag. "Then don't lie now. Tell me what you're thinking."
Mira swallowed. Her mouth was dry. "I think I'm afraid this won't be enough."
He nodded slowly. "And I think I'm afraid it'll be too much."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It pulsed between them.
"What does that mean?" she asked softly.
"I've spent years keeping people at a distance, Mira. For good reason. I've been let down more times than I can count. And when I met you, it was supposed to be a quiet thing. A casual thing."
"And it's not," she said.
"No," he said, stepping even closer. "It's not. You get under my skin. You make me want things I haven't wanted in years."
Her breath caught. "Like what?"
"Like mornings with someone. Like shared silence that doesn't feel lonely. Like something that actually lasts."
She didn't move. Couldn't. The look in his eyes was too intense, too real.
"But I don't know how to do that," he admitted. "I don't know how to be good at it."
"Maybe you don't have to be good at it," she whispered. "Maybe you just have to want it."
His hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. The touch was light. Careful.
"I do," he murmured.
She leaned in, not for a kiss—but just to be there. In the moment. With him.
And he let her.
---
That night, Mira didn't go home.
She stayed. On the couch, curled under a frayed blanket he handed her. Jace didn't try anything. He just sat nearby, his breathing steady and close.
They didn't talk much.
They didn't need to.
In that quiet, Mira realized something: you don't always fall in love with fireworks.
Sometimes you fall in love with pauses.
With glances.
With a man who fixes broken things and doesn't realize he's one of them.
And sometimes, when strangers collide, they don't break.
They shift.