Saturday mornings in Dalton moved like syrup.
By 10 a.m., the farmers' market had taken over the church lot. Old men sold peaches out of pickup beds, women with floral aprons handed out jars of jam, and kids ran barefoot with Popsicles melting down their arms.
Ellie hadn't planned to go. She was going to write. Maybe walk the edge of the creek and think about not thinking about Jack Bennett.
But Margot had other plans.
"Come on," she said, tossing Ellie a wide-brimmed straw hat. "It's a sin to waste a good Saturday. Plus, I heard they have fresh pie and ridiculously attractive mechanics who sometimes show up for auto parts."
Ellie rolled her eyes. "You're not subtle."
Margot shrugged. "I'm not wrong either."
They walked among the booths slowly, Ellie trailing her fingers over hand-stitched quilts and vine-ripened tomatoes, trying not to scan the crowd. But her eyes betrayed her.
And then she saw him.
Across the gravel lot. Dark jeans. White T-shirt. Leather gloves in one back pocket. He stood at a makeshift stall, talking to the parts vendor, his back turned—but she knew it was him.
Something in her shifted. A hush inside her chest, like her whole body exhaled.
He turned.
And he saw her.
Again, that look. Still. Deep. A look that didn't move or blink. A look that reached.
Ellie felt her feet carry her forward before she even thought to stop them. Margot, sensing the current, peeled off toward a coffee stand without a word.
Jack didn't move, but his gaze tracked her every step.
When she reached him, neither of them said anything for a moment. Just the quiet hum of bees and the murmur of townsfolk around them.
Then she smiled, just a little.
"Morning," she said, voice low, shy.
He nodded. "Morning."
She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, suddenly self-conscious.
"I, uh, wanted to say thank you. For not laughing when you saw our poor car yesterday."
Jack's mouth twitched like he might've smiled, but didn't.
"It's not the worst I've seen," he said.
"I'm sure."
They both looked away at the same time, then back.
"I'm Ellie," she offered, holding out her hand.
Jack hesitated—just for a heartbeat—then took it. His hand was warm, rough, calloused. She felt it in her spine.
"Jack."
They stood like that, hands touching a second too long, until someone walked past and broke the spell.
"I heard you fix things," Ellie said, not letting go of the thread. "Think you could take a look at our station wagon sometime next week?"
He nodded slowly. "Could stop by tomorrow. After church."
"Tomorrow's good."
She smiled again, and this time he almost smiled back. Just a glimmer in the eyes, but it felt like sunrise.
Then, quietly, he said: "You always look at people like that?"
Ellie tilted her head. "Like what?"
"Like they're poems."
Her heart fluttered.
"Only the ones that read like silence," she said.
Jack looked away, one corner of his mouth curling, and Ellie knew she'd caught him off guard.
He cleared his throat. "I'll see you tomorrow."
And then he was gone—walking away with slow, measured steps, like a man who had just touched fire and didn't want to show the burn.
That night, back at the farmhouse, El
lie wrote just one sentence in her notebook:
> He speaks like molasses—but looks like thunder.