Chapter 3 — Windows Into Each Other

Jack

Jack Hart leaned under the sink, the metallic tang of plumbing tools sharp in the back of his throat. His hands moved with the kind of efficiency that came from years of practice, the rhythmic tightening and adjusting of pipes almost meditative. This was the kind of work that made sense to him—straightforward, tactile, and devoid of emotional mess. Problems with clear solutions. He liked that. It was grounding in a way Ellie Winslow’s kitchen wasn’t.

The space was pristine—too pristine. White countertops gleamed under cold fluorescent light, each item arranged with clinical precision, as though the room was more stage set than workspace. The air carried the faint, sterile scent of cleaning products, masking any hint of life. For all its polish, it felt hollow, like a surface wiped clean too many times. Jack ran his thumb over the edge of the cabinet, roughened by years of work, and found himself wondering what it would take to let a little imperfection in.

From the corner of his eye, he caught Ellie standing at the far end of the kitchen. Her hands ghosted over the hem of her cardigan, fingers brushing the soft floral fabric of her blouse. She looked like she was trying to fold herself into the background, unsure whether she was meant to be part of the scene or merely an observer. Her chestnut hair, tied up in a loose bun, had left a few strands tumbling free, brushing her face. She didn’t seem to notice.

Ellie wasn’t watching him—not directly. Her gaze hovered somewhere between him and the countertop, darting away whenever it got too close. Jack’s brow furrowed as a thread of curiosity tugged at him. This wasn’t just shyness—there was something more. Not fear, exactly, but a hesitation, like someone testing the strength of the ice beneath their feet.

“So, uh... this leak,” Jack said, breaking the silence. His voice came out rougher than he intended, so he softened his tone. “Looks like whoever worked on this last didn’t seal the connections properly. Classic shortcut move. Shouldn’t take too long to fix.”

Ellie nodded, her lips curving into a polite, thin smile. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I know you must be busy.”

“Busy’s good.” Jack wiped his hands on a rag and glanced up at her. “Keeps the lights on.”

She gave a small laugh—quiet, careful—before shifting her weight to the side. Jack caught the movement, subtle but telling. Her fingers, still toying with the buttons on her cardigan, seemed to pause, curling inward just slightly. Something about the gesture lingered in his mind, like the metallic taste of his tools.

“You’ve got a nice setup here,” Jack offered, gesturing loosely to the room. “All this white—very, uh, modern.”

Ellie’s laugh came again, soft and faintly strained, like it was fighting its way out. “Greg picked most of it. My husband. He’s... particular about these things.”

Her hands stilled completely at the word “particular,” the change so slight it might have been missed by anyone not paying attention. Jack was paying attention. There was weight to the word, the kind of weight that came from years of carrying it. His chest tightened briefly, and he turned back to the pipe, giving a noncommittal grunt. He wasn’t one to pry, but the silence that followed pressed against him, heavy and unyielding.

The clink of his wrench punctuated the quiet, but even that felt hollow. Jack didn’t mind silence—usually. It suited him. But this wasn’t the kind of silence you could settle into. It was the kind of silence that needed something—a spark to cut through the stillness.

“I couldn’t help but notice that old greenhouse in the backyard,” Jack said, keeping his tone casual. “Kind of hard to miss. Looks like it’s been out of commission for a while.”

Ellie blinked, startled as though she’d been jolted out of a dream. “Oh. Yes. The greenhouse...” Her gaze flicked toward the window, searching for it through the glass, though it stood far beyond her line of sight. “It’s been like that for years. I used to think I’d get around to fixing it, but... well, life happens.”

Jack straightened, brushing dust from his jeans as he leaned lightly against the counter. “Practical’s overrated,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Sometimes you’ve just gotta take a chance and do something for yourself.”

Ellie’s hazel eyes finally met his. For a moment, there was something there—a flicker of longing, so brief and fragile he might have imagined it. Then she looked away, her fingers resuming their nervous work on the cardigan. “I’m not very good at that, I’m afraid,” she said, her voice tinged with self-deprecation.

Jack raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No time like the present to learn.”

Her lips curved into something softer, more genuine, and Jack felt it—an unexpected warmth in his chest, like sunlight breaking through the cracks of an old, boarded-up window. He hadn’t meant to push, but he couldn’t ignore the way the idea seemed to shift something in her, even if only slightly. His gaze drifted out the window again, to the greenhouse. He could see it in his mind—whole and alive, sunlight filtering through polished glass, plants thriving in a tangle of green and color. And Ellie, standing in the center of it all, surrounded by life.

“Looks like it’s got good bones,” he said, nodding toward the yard. “If you ever decide to fix it up, you know who to call. I’m handy with more than just plumbing.”

Ellie tilted her head, her expression hovering between curiosity and caution. “Are you always this forward with your clients?”

Jack chuckled, low and easy. “Only the ones with interesting greenhouses.”

This time, her laugh felt different—lighter, freer—and it caught him off guard. The sound stayed with him as he turned back to tighten the last connection, packing up his tools with practiced efficiency. But his motions were slower now, deliberate. He wasn’t in a hurry to leave.

“All set,” he said, wiping his hands clean before standing upright. “Shouldn’t give you any more trouble. If it does, you’ve got my number.”

Ellie followed him to the door, her hands clasped in front of her. “Thanks, Jack. I mean it.”

He nodded, his tone light but genuine. “Anytime, Mrs. Winslow.”

As he stepped out into the late afternoon, the warmth of the sun brushed against his face, softening the sharp angles of the world. Jack paused by his truck, his gaze drawn once more to the greenhouse. The fractured glass caught the light, scattering it into uneven shards of color. It looked unfinished, like something waiting to be made whole again.

And maybe, Jack thought, Ellie wasn’t so different.

Shaking his head, he climbed into the truck and started the engine. But the sound of her laugh and the image of her tentative smile clung to him, as stubborn as the vines curling around the greenhouse’s rusted frame.