Chapter 4 Forced Recovery #2
The farmhouse sat several miles outside Willow Ridge, surrounded by open fields, old trees, and enough distance to discourage unexpected visitors. The property wasn't impressive. The paint needed attention. The porch leaned slightly to one side. Several repairs remained unfinished.
None of that bothered him.
It was his.
Quiet.
Private.
Predictable.
For years, that had been enough.
Today, it felt different.
The pickup truck rolled to a stop in front of the house just before noon.
Deck stared through the passenger window.
Something twisted unpleasantly in his stomach.
Home should have felt comforting.
Instead, it felt intimidating.
The realization irritated him immediately.
He knew every inch of this property.
Every room.
Every floorboard.
Every repair he'd completed over the years.
Yet for the first time since buying the farmhouse, he wasn't entirely sure he could manage it.
The thought landed like a punch.
"Ready?"
Riot's voice broke through the silence.
Deck glanced toward the driver's seat.
His best friend looked annoyingly calm.
As usual.
The mechanic grunted.
"Not really."
Kane smirked.
"Good."
Deck frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you're finally being honest."
The answer earned a glare.
Riot appeared completely unbothered.
Unfortunately.
The truck door opened.
Warm afternoon air drifted inside.
Reality waited outside.
Deck climbed out slowly.
Every movement reminded him of the explosion.
His ribs protested immediately.
His shoulder burned.
Both hands felt stiff and useless beneath layers of bandages.
Wonderful.
Just wonderful.
The front porch looked exactly the same.
The old rocking chair remained beside the door.
The flower pots sat empty.
The faded welcome mat still occupied its usual spot.
Nothing had changed.
Everything had changed.
The realization followed him up the porch steps.
By the time he reached the front door, exhaustion already tugged at him.
That annoyed him too.
Three weeks ago he could work twelve-hour shifts without complaint.
Now walking across a yard felt like exercise.
Humiliating.
The front door opened.
The familiar scent of wood, coffee, motor oil, and old books greeted him immediately.
Home.
At least part of him relaxed.
The feeling didn't last.
Because reality quickly reappeared.
The farmhouse wasn't designed for injuries.
The kitchen cabinets suddenly looked too high.
The coffee maker looked farther away.
The stairs leading upstairs looked like a personal insult.
Everyday objects transformed into obstacles.
Every room contained reminders of things he couldn't do.
Deck hated it instantly.
Riot noticed.
Of course he noticed.
The man missed nothing.
"Take it easy."
Deck snorted.
"I am taking it easy."
"You're glaring at furniture."
The observation landed a little too close to the truth.
The mechanic looked away.
Toward the kitchen.
Toward anything else.
Unfortunately, the kitchen proved equally irritating.
A coffee mug sat beside the sink.
Simple.
Ordinary.
The kind of object nobody thought about.
Until they couldn't use it.
Deck approached automatically.
Determined to prove something.
Maybe to Riot.
Maybe to himself.
Probably both.
He reached for the mug.
Pain immediately shot through both hands.
The ceramic slipped.
His grip failed.
The mug crashed into the sink.
Not broken.
Close enough.
The sound echoed through the room.
Silence followed.
Heavy silence.
The kind people used when pretending they hadn't seen something embarrassing.
Deck hated that silence most of all.
Because Kane had seen.
Obviously.
The mechanic stood motionless.
Jaw tight.
Hands throbbing.
Pride wounded.
The older man said nothing.
For once.
That somehow felt worse.
Eventually Riot moved toward the refrigerator.
Giving him space.
Pretending nothing happened.
Deck appreciated the effort.
Even if it didn't help.
The humiliation lingered.
Hours passed slowly.
The afternoon disappeared beneath a steady parade of frustrations.
Opening containers.
Buttoning shirts.
Lifting objects.
Simple tasks suddenly required effort.
Planning.
Patience.
Deck possessed none of those things.
The realization became increasingly obvious.
Around three o'clock, he attempted changing the bandage covering one arm.
The effort lasted less than two minutes before frustration won.
The gauze tangled.
Tape stuck to everything.
Pain flared repeatedly.
Eventually he threw the entire roll across the room.
The action immediately hurt his shoulder.
Perfect.
Now he was angry and injured.
An impressive combination.
The front door opened moments later.
Deck already knew who it was.
Only one person knocked before entering.
Finn Ashford stepped inside carrying a medical bag.
The sight instantly worsened his mood.
Not because he disliked the doctor.
Not exactly.
Because the doctor represented everything currently wrong with his life.
Dependence.
Recovery.
Limitations.
The younger man stopped near the doorway.
Taking in the scattered medical supplies.
The discarded gauze.
Deck's expression.
The entire scene.
Understanding appeared immediately.
Unfortunately.
"Tough afternoon?"
The question sounded genuinely sympathetic.
That somehow made it worse.
Deck folded his arms.
Or tried to.
The movement hurt.
"Fine."
Finn looked at the tape stuck to his sleeve.
Then at the medical supplies.
Then at him.
The doctor wasn't fooled.
Not remotely.
"Of course."
The answer carried enough amusement to irritate him.
The younger man set down the medical bag.
Then retrieved a fresh bandage.
Professional mode activated instantly.
"Sit down."
Deck considered refusing.
Briefly.
The effort sounded exhausting.
Instead he sat.
Grumpily.
Finn knelt beside the chair.
Carefully removing damaged bandages.
The room grew quiet.
The doctor's movements remained gentle.
Efficient.
Confident.
The sight unexpectedly held his attention.
Most people hesitated around injuries.
Especially severe ones.
Finn never did.
He simply focused on the work.
No judgment.
No pity.
Just care.
The realization felt uncomfortable.
Dangerously uncomfortable.
Deck looked away.
Toward the window.
Outside, late afternoon sunlight stretched across the property.
The fields glowed gold.
The barn stood quietly in the distance.
Everything looked normal.
Peaceful.
He wished he felt the same.
The bandage change finished quickly.
Then came medication.
Instructions.
Questions.
Recovery discussions.
Everything he wanted to avoid.
Finn persisted anyway.
Because apparently stubbornness existed in multiple forms.
The doctor eventually moved into the kitchen.
Checking medications.
Organizing supplies.
Preparing dinner.
The sight confused Deck.
"What are you doing?"
Finn glanced over his shoulder.
"Making food."
The answer sounded obvious.
The mechanic frowned.
"I can make food."
The younger man studied him.
Patiently.
Dangerously patiently.
"Can you open a can?"
Deck opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Because no.
Not really.
Not currently.
The realization landed like another blow.
The doctor returned to cooking.
Mercifully choosing not to comment further.
The silence stretched.
By the time dinner was ready, Deck felt exhausted.
Physically.
Emotionally.
Mentally.
Recovery apparently required energy.
Who knew?
The meal itself looked simple.
Pasta.
Vegetables.
Nothing fancy.
The smell filled the kitchen.
Normally, he'd appreciate it.
Tonight, another challenge waited.
The fork.
The simple metal utensil suddenly seemed far more complicated than necessary.
Deck stared at it.
Then at his bandaged hands.
Then back at the fork.
No.
Absolutely not.
He could manage this.
The mechanic picked it up carefully.
Pain flared immediately.
His grip weakened.
The fork slipped.
Clattered against the plate.
Embarrassment flooded him.
Hot.
Immediate.
Humiliating.
The kitchen fell silent.
Deck stared at the table.
Unable to meet anyone's eyes.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then Finn quietly reached across the table.
The doctor picked up the fork.
Twisted a portion of pasta around it.
Simple.
Casual.
No fuss.
No pity.
No dramatic reaction.
Just practical help.
The younger man held it out.
Waiting.
Deck stared.
Mortified.
The situation felt impossible.
He was thirty-seven years old.
Not seven.
The humiliation burned hotter than the pain.
Finn's expression remained calm.
Gentle.
Patient.
Most importantly, normal.
As though helping someone through recovery was no different than discussing the weather.
The silence stretched.
Finally, Deck accepted.
Reluctantly.
The first bite tasted like defeat.
The second tasted slightly less terrible.
By the third, exhaustion outweighed pride.
The doctor continued helping quietly.
Never commenting.
Never drawing attention to it.
Simply making sure he ate.
The realization settled heavily inside Deck's chest.
Because somehow, despite all his resistance, all his arguments, and all his frustration, Finn Ashford had managed something nobody else had accomplished in years.
He'd made being vulnerable feel slightly less terrifying.
And that realization frightened Deck more than anything else.
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