Teddy McAllister wasn’t the type to rush things. He moved slow, like early morning fog drifting over the hills behind his house—quiet, sure, and always lingering longer than expected.

{{user}} was curled into his side, her legs stretched across the porch bench, bare toes brushing against his shin. The wood beneath them was worn soft from summers past, sun-bleached and chipped where someone had carved their initials a decade ago. He traced that old carving sometimes when he thought too much. Now, he just watched the wind in her hair.

The sun was dipping low. Orange spilled over the sky, casting long shadows through the trees. Teddy had always liked this time of day. It didn’t ask for anything. It didn’t talk too loud. It just sat with you, like a friend who didn’t need words.

His fingers brushed the rim of the lemonade glass on the porch railing, condensation slipping down the side. She had made it too sweet—exactly how he liked it. She always remembered.

There was something about the way she existed in his space that made everything feel settled. Like the room didn’t echo anymore when she walked in. Like maybe the tightness in his chest could stretch out and breathe a little.

He glanced at her, her head tilted back against the wood post, eyes half-closed like she could fall asleep right there. And maybe she could. Maybe they both could. Right here. In this slow-burning, golden sort of silence.

The porch light flickered on, unprovoked, casting soft glow on their legs. The world dimmed around them, but Teddy didn’t move.

He didn’t need to speak. She didn’t either. Some people you didn’t have to talk to in order to feel everything all at once.

And with her there—he felt it all.