Page 134 of Dirty Mechanic

Blake’s recovery is slow. Some days, there’s nothing. Others, he twitches a toe. We take turns visiting. And sometimes… I swear I see him dreaming. His hand curls. His lips part like he’s about to ask for seconds at dinner.

“Maybe next year,” Derek whispers every time we visit, “he’ll be here beside us.”

“Maybe,” I whisper back, slipping my hand into his.

As dusk folds into night, the orchard’s lamplights glow like watchful stars. Around us, the valley pulses with shared stories, second chances, and the promise that—even when storms threaten to swallow us—we will stand rooted, together, and harvest hope anew.

“Home,” I breathe.

He kisses my hair. “Always.”

As the wind stirs through the orchard, I glance at Derek. He’s watching the trees like they’re whispering old secrets. His thumb brushes over my wedding ring, and I know exactly where his thoughts are.

“She’d be happy for you,” I whisper.

He nods, quiet. “I think so too.”

There’s no ghost between us. Just memory. Just gratitude. Just the path we walked to get here.

By firelight, we settle into our farmhouse kitchen. Steam curls from cider mugs; pie crumbs dust our plates. It’s almost normal, until my father turns on the television.

“What the hell?” Derek breathes.

Skylar Bishop, or as we know her, Misty, dressed in white, stands with Cash Wagner beside her, both radiant beneath crystal chandeliers.

The air snags in my throat as the high-profile society wedding rolls across the screen. Derek’s hand tightens around mine so hard, his wine glass slips from his fingers. It hits the floor with a crash, shards glinting like falling stars.