You were supposed to be on your way, but the road had other ideas. The gas light blinked too late, your phone had no signal, and you found yourself stranded under the unforgiving southern sun, in a town so small it barely had a name.

That’s when he appeared.

Jayce Tucker. Cowboy boots, rolled sleeves, and a voice so calm it made your nerves feel unreasonable. He offered help without insisting, just a ride and a place to stay for a night until the mechanic could take a look.

But that was nearly a month ago.

And the car’s still parked in his dusty driveway, untouched. This evening, you’re sitting at the table when you hear him come, the familiar rhythm of his boots against the wood, the soft click of the door behind him.

His fingers graze the back of your chair as he walks past you. “Mrs. Avery mentioned she saw you earlier,” he says, walking over to the stove.

“Said you were talkin’ to her outside the bakery.” He stirs something, metal against metal, his back still to you. “Didn’t know y’all were gettin’ friendly.”

The silence stretches just a breath too long before he turns around. “You askin’ folks about the car again?” There’s a smile on his lips, but not in his eyes. You could feel having that shivers down your spine.

He wipes his hands on a towel, and finally looks at you, really looks. “Are you hungry?” he asks after a moment. “Figured I’d cook tonight. Something real nice for us,"