Page 125 of Dirty Mechanic

I lean against the polished linoleum wall, Derek at my side, both of us wrapped in borrowed coats. The nurse’s station buzzes behind us, overhead lights reflecting off the rain-soaked floor.

We walk the halls together, bruised, but leaning on each other. The air is too bright. Too clean. But we’re still breathing, even when we stop outside the ICU.

“I need to see Blake,” Derek says.

Misty doesn’t come with us. She’s already seen Blake. Said her goodbye—just in case—when no one else was looking. I don’t think she has the strength to do it again. Eric’s waiting at the elevator with her wheelchair, one steady hand on the handle, the other offering quiet comfort she doesn’t resist. She meets my eyes as the doors close, and I swear I see the flicker of something breaking all over again.

The space hums with low monitors and the bus of things that matter too much to speak aloud. Through the glass window, I see Blake. He’s pale and still. A breathing tube is taped to his mouth, lifting his chest in a slow, mechanical rhythm. Machines beep and hiss like they’re doing all the work for him. Because they are.

“Take your time.” I squeeze his hand, and the nurse pushes the door open.

We step into the room like it’s hallowed ground. My shoes feel too loud against the linoleum. The smell, sterile and sharp, reminds me of school days in San Francisco, wraps around my chest and squeezes. Every wire, every tube, is a thread holding him here.

Derek eases into the chair beside him, and takes his hand.

“Hey, kid,” he whispers. “You scared the hell out of me.”

His eyelids don’t flicker. His fingers don’t move. Just the hush of the ventilator and the soft thump of his heart on the monitor.

My gaze drops to their hands, tangled and still, and the guilt settles in like a bruise. None of this would’ve happened if I hadn’t run to San Francisco.

“I should’ve protected you. I should’ve seen what was coming,” Derek says.

I shake my head. “I’m the one who left Lords Valley. This wouldn’t have happened if I’d just stayed put.”

The words fall between us, small and broken, landing with no echo.

Derek turns my way, lifts from the chair, and takes my face between his hands. “No. This isn’t your fault. But from now on, we need to be smarter. Both of us.”

He sweeps the stray tear off my cheek, and I whisper, “Okay.”

He sits back down and presses his forehead to the back of Blake’s hand, breathing him in.

“You’re gonna come back from this. You hear me?” He whispers. “You’ve still got a race to beat me in. And a farm to run. A bakery to sneak fritters from when you think Annabelle’s not looking.”

His voice cracks.

“And I need you to forgive me.” He bows his head, pressing his forehead to Blake’s hand like it’s sacred. His shoulders shake—once, barely—as if he’s forcing the grief to stay inside.

I almost break.

“I’m not ready to lose you. So you stay. You fight. And when you wake up, I’ll be right here.” His voice is low and raw, like it’s costing him something to let the words go.

Then the monitor stutters. A single beep—off rhythm. Then another. Slightly quicker. Like something inside him’s shifting.

Derek lifts his head, kisses Blake’s knuckles, and we let the nurse guide us out.

Just as we turn, something shifts.

I hold my breath when Blake’s fingers twitch.

Derek stares. Waits.

Nothing.

The monitor beeps on like it always has, steady and detached. The nurse says it’s probably reflex. That sometimes the body remembers movement long after the mind forgets.

But I tuck that flicker into my chest anyway—like a secret I refuse to let go—for Derek.