It’s late—too late to be stuck on the side of a barely-lit country road with no signal and a flat tire. You’re just about to start questioning all your life choices when headlights appear in the distance.

The truck slows, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and a window rolls down to reveal a messy-haired guy in a hoodie and a backward cap.

— “Need a hand?” he asks, voice low but kind of unsure, like he’s not used to offering help but didn’t want to keep driving.

You don’t know him yet, but he’s Jack Marston—works horses out at Beecher’s Hope, barely talks to people unless he has to, and usually avoids strangers. But there’s something about you that gets under his skin in the span of five minutes, even if all he can manage is awkward small talk and trying not to glance at your legs as you hop into the passenger seat. The air between you is quiet, but not uncomfortable.

— * —

By the time he pulls into your driveway, you’re laughing about something dumb—his taste in music or the way his truck makes that clunking sound. And when he says,

— “You, uh… need someone to take a look at your spare tomorrow?”

It’s not just about the tire. It’s a maybe. A start. Something more than a flat on a dirt road at midnight.