Sunday came with soft clouds and the scent of morning biscuits.
Ellie wore a light blue dress, sleeveless, cinched at the waist, and old white sneakers with faint traces of New York dust. She'd brushed her hair, left it down. It moved with the breeze as she sat on the farmhouse porch, pretending to read but really just...waiting.
She had told herself not to look at the clock. Not to get ahead of things. But still, she checked the time every few minutes.
Then, just past noon, she heard it.
The low rumble of an engine rolling down the gravel path.
Her breath caught. She stood slowly.
A red pickup came into view, faded with age, like everything in Dalton. And Jack sat behind the wheel, one arm out the window, sunglasses on, a white T-shirt stretched over his chest like it had been made for him. His forearms, sun-bronzed and strong, rested easily against the wheel.
Ellie felt her stomach tighten.
She stepped off the porch just as he pulled up. Dust followed him like a veil.
Jack climbed out, grabbing his toolbox from the bed. "Afternoon," he said simply.
"Hi," she replied, suddenly aware of how exposed she felt in the sunlight.
He walked past her toward the station wagon, his shoulder brushing hers.
It was the first real touch.
Not intentional.
But not entirely accidental either.
It lingered like heat long after he'd passed.
The hood of the old car creaked open, and Jack peered inside, assessing the damage with calm hands and trained eyes. Ellie stood nearby, arms crossed, trying not to stare but utterly failing.
He worked quietly, sleeves rolled up, veins visible along his forearms as he wiped sweat from his brow. Tools clanked, and every now and then, he'd mutter something under his breath—about carburetors, timing belts, hoses and seals.
Ellie didn't understand a word. But the way he moved—focused, confident, lean muscles flexing with every turn of the wrench—spoke louder than any engine.
"You talk to your cars?" she asked softly.
Jack didn't look up. "Sometimes they listen better than people."
That made her smile. "What do they usually say?"
"That they're tired. And they want to go home."
She stepped closer, curiosity and something warmer pulling her in.
"You seem good at fixing broken things," she said.
Jack paused. Looked up. Their eyes met.
"I wasn't always."
She felt something shift in the air—like they'd crossed an invisible line.
"You married?" she asked before she could stop herself.
He looked at her a long moment. "Used to be."
"I'm sorry."
He shook his head. "Don't be."
Another silence fell. Not awkward—just heavy. Full.
Ellie reached down and plucked a piece of grass, rolling it between her fingers.
"Someone once told me I'm hard to love," she said softly.
Jack didn't respond right away. He straightened, wiped his hands with a rag, then leaned against the side of the car, facing her.
"You don't seem hard to love," he said. "You seem like someone who's been loved the wrong way."
Her eyes met his, full and glassy.
"And how would you love someone?" she asked, the words barely more than breath.
Jack's jaw clenched, then relaxed. He stepped forward, close enough that she could smell the motor oil and soap on his skin.
"Slow," he said. "And with my whole damn hands."
Her breath hitched. Her heart—gone.
They stood there, inches apart, the station wagon between them like a relic of a past life, while something new crackled in the summer heat.
But Jack pulled back first.
"I should get going," he said, his voice a little rougher.
Ellie nodded, even though she didn't want him to leave.
He grabbed his tools, paused at the truck door. "I'll come by next week. Replace the belt. She'll run better after that."
"She's already starting to," Ellie said quietly, not talking about the car.
Jack paused.
Then, without a word, he got in and drove off—slowly, like he wasn't sure he wanted to leave at all.
Later that night, Ellie sat with her notebook in her lap, pen trembling slightly in her hand.
> *He touched me without touching me.
And I felt more than I have in years.
There's something in his silence that speaks louder than any kiss.*
She didn't know it yet—but Jack was writing something
too.
Not on paper.
But in memory.
Etching her into places inside him that hadn't known warmth in a very long time.