The station wagon rumbled down Main Street, rattling over potholes and sun-dried gravel. Ellie sat in the passenger seat, elbow resting on the open window, letting the wind play with her hair. Her heart was beating a little too fast, but she said nothing. Neither did Margot. Not yet.
Jack Bennett's face was still burned into her mind. Those eyes—blue and unreadable—had met hers like a question she didn't have the answer to.
She glanced in the side mirror. The garage was gone from sight, but the feeling lingered.
"You good?" Margot asked, chewing on a piece of gum as she turned down a narrow lane lined with trees and sagging fences.
Ellie nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just—hot."
"You weren't hot until you saw that mechanic."
Ellie let out a soft laugh and shook her head, but she didn't argue. Margot knew her too well. And besides, she wasn't wrong.
They arrived at the farmhouse by mid-afternoon. It sat at the edge of an open field, the porch wide and shaded, rocking chairs creaking slightly in the breeze. Mrs. Penelope Greene, their host, was a widow with kind eyes, long skirts, and the firm belief that God made iced tea for women like Ellie who "look too gentle for this kind of heat."
Inside, the house smelled of lavender and wood polish. Everything was quiet, except for the distant sound of a rooster and the ticking of a wall clock.
While Margot unpacked, Ellie stepped outside with a glass of tea and wandered barefoot into the yard. The sunlight made everything golden—like she'd stepped into an old photograph. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back.
But all she could see was him.
Back at the garage, Jack had gone back under the truck, but his rhythm was off.
His hands moved slower. His breath shallower.
He hadn't meant to stare. He hadn't expected to feel anything. He hadn't felt anything in years. But the moment their eyes met, something in his chest had cracked open—like a joint that hadn't moved in too long.
It wasn't just that she was beautiful. She was. But it was the softness in her eyes, the stillness in the way she looked at him. Like she saw him. Not just a man covered in grease and rust—but the man he used to be. The man he'd buried.
"Damn," he muttered, slamming the hood closed with a thud. The sound echoed across the lot.
His brother, Luke, leaned on the open doorframe with a toothpick in his mouth and a knowing smirk. "You looked like you saw an angel. Or a ghost."
Jack shot him a warning glance. "Don't."
Luke chuckled. "Just saying. She wasn't from around here. She looked...soft. Like summer and poetry."
Jack turned away, but Luke wasn't done.
"She's staying out at Penny Greene's place. One of them artsy types, I hear."
Jack said nothing. Just wiped his hands on the rag again, though they were already clean.
Luke grinned. "You gonna fix her car, or just stand around looking like you got hit by lightning?"
That night, Ellie lay awake beneath a ceiling fan that clicked on every third spin. Outside, crickets sang, and the air smelled like honeysuckle and something old, like hay and iron.
She scribbled in her notebook.
> He looked at me like he hadn't looked at anyone in years.
I looked back like I didn't know how to breathe.
And then we both looked away.
But something stayed behind in that glance—something warm, something waiting.
She paused, listening to the stillness. Then she whispered into the dark:
"Jack."
It felt dangerous, just saying his name. Like touching flame.
She didn't know then that he was wide awake too, a few miles away, staring at his ceiling with a wrench still in his hand.