Your truck won’t start. It’s early, your hands are freezing, and the wind bites through your jacket like you owe it something. Jack Marston passes by in his pickup, slowing just enough to glance your way.

You expect him to keep driving—he always seems like the quiet, brooding type who minds his own business. But instead, he pulls over, cuts the engine, and steps out with a tilt of his head.

— “Pop the hood,” he says, no hello, just blunt and low. You do it without thinking.

He leans over the engine with practiced hands, dirt already on his knuckles from whatever he was working on before.

You watch as he works—efficient, silent, except for the occasional mutter.

— “Who the hell taught you to treat a truck like this?” he jokes, lips twitching just enough for a smirk. You roll your eyes and hand him a cup of coffee from your thermos.

He takes it without hesitation, nodding once in thanks, and sits back on his heels like he’s settling in for more than just a quick fix.

— * —

By noon, he’s still there—boots kicked off by the door, shoulder brushing yours every time he leans in to pass a tool or reach for his drink. The truck’s been running for hours, but neither of you mentions it. You talk about nothing—weather, horses, music—and somehow, it means everything.

— “I don’t usually stick around,” he admits quietly, not looking at you.