Chapter 5 Small Kindnesses #2
Genuinely surprised.
Because Declan Harlan didn't thank people easily.
The mechanic clearly hated doing it now.
Yet he'd done it anyway.
The doctor smiled.
Softly.
"No problem."
Deck nodded once.
Still looking away.
The moment lasted only seconds.
Then it disappeared.
The mechanic returned to scowling.
The doctor returned to work.
Life moved forward.
Yet the gratitude lingered.
Because sometimes the smallest victories had nothing to do with recovery.
And everything to do with trust.
Watching Him
Deck never intended to start paying attention to Finn.
The problem was that once he noticed something, he couldn't seem to stop noticing it.
At first, it had been practical.
The doctor lived in his house.
Shared his kitchen.
Occupied the guest room down the hall.
People naturally noticed those things.
That was normal.
Reasonable.
Nothing worth thinking about.
Unfortunately, the observations kept multiplying.
And somewhere along the way, they stopped being practical.
The realization annoyed him.
Deeply.
It started with coffee.
Finn drank entirely too much of it.
Not in the aggressive, mechanic-approved way normal people drank coffee.
The doctor treated it like some kind of ritual.
Every morning began the same way.
He woke before sunrise.
Showered.
Dressed.
Then stood in the kitchen making coffee with the kind of concentration usually reserved for surgery.
Deck discovered this accidentally.
One morning he came downstairs expecting silence.
Instead, he found Finn standing barefoot in the kitchen wearing soft gray sweatpants and an old Willow Ridge Medical Center T-shirt.
The sight caught him off guard.
Not because of the clothes.
Because the doctor looked younger.
Softer.
Without the white coat and professional confidence, he seemed more human somehow.
Less untouchable.
More real.
The realization lingered longer than it should have.
Now Deck noticed the routine every day.
Finn always drank the first cup while staring out the kitchen window.
Always.
No exceptions.
He'd stand there quietly watching the sunrise while the rest of the world slept.
The habit fascinated Deck for reasons he couldn't explain.
Most people needed noise.
Music.
Television.
Conversation.
Finn seemed comfortable with silence.
The mechanic understood that.
More than he wanted to.
The doctor also hummed when he cooked.
Softly.
Absentmindedly.
Usually without realizing it.
The sound appeared whenever he focused on preparing food.
Deck had noticed during the second week.
Now he couldn't stop noticing.
The melodies changed constantly.
Sometimes familiar.
Sometimes completely random.
The habit should've been irritating.
Instead, he found himself listening for it.
Which was ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
The problem extended beyond the farmhouse.
Everywhere Finn went seemed to attract people.
The doctor possessed some strange ability to make strangers comfortable.
Patients trusted him.
Children adored him.
The nursing staff clearly respected him.
Even Riot and Elias seemed genuinely fond of him.
The effect baffled Deck.
Because Finn wasn't loud.
Or dramatic.
Or particularly outgoing.
Yet somehow people gravitated toward him.
The mechanic had witnessed it repeatedly.
One afternoon, he sat in the clinic waiting for an appointment.
A young mother entered carrying a crying toddler.
The child couldn't have been older than three.
Nothing seemed seriously wrong.
The little girl simply looked frightened.
Hospitals did that to kids.
The mother looked exhausted.
Embarrassed.
Overwhelmed.
Most people pretended not to notice.
Finn didn't.
The doctor crouched beside the child.
Spoke quietly.
Smiled.
Within minutes, the tears stopped.
Ten minutes later, the little girl laughed at something he'd said.
By the time the appointment ended, she waved goodbye like they were old friends.
Deck remembered watching the interaction.
Trying unsuccessfully to understand it.
The doctor simply cared.
Not because it was required.
Not because someone was watching.
Because it mattered to him.
The realization unsettled him.
Because sincerity like that felt rare.
Dangerously rare.
People usually wanted something.
Attention.
Money.
Approval.
Something.
Finn never seemed to.
He simply helped.
The thought returned often.
More often than Deck wanted.
The worst part was that the observations kept getting more specific.
The doctor always tucked loose hair behind one ear when reading medical files.
Always.
He chewed the inside of his cheek when concentrating.
He preferred paperback books to electronic ones.
He organized grocery lists by category.
He hated mushrooms.
He loved thunderstorms.
He collected old medical journals.
He laughed hardest at terrible jokes.
Deck knew all these things.
The realization should've alarmed him sooner.
Instead, he accepted the information without question.
Like it mattered.
Like it belonged somewhere important.
The problem became impossible to ignore when Finn started spending longer hours at the clinic.
The rebuilding efforts throughout Willow Ridge created endless work.
New patients arrived constantly.
Farm accidents.
Construction injuries.
Recovery cases.
The clinic remained busy.
Most days, Finn left shortly after breakfast and returned sometime around dinner.
Normal.
Reasonable.
Expected.
Yet somehow Deck found himself aware of the exact time the doctor's truck usually pulled into the driveway.
Not intentionally.
At first.
The awareness developed gradually.
Without permission.
Without logic.
One afternoon, he spent nearly three hours in the workshop behind the farmhouse.
The space contained several unfinished projects.
Normally, working there relaxed him.
Today proved different.
Every fifteen minutes he looked toward the driveway.
The behavior irritated him immediately.
He wasn't waiting.
Definitely not.
The doctor had a job.
A life.
Responsibilities.
Deck understood all that.
The fact that he continued checking the clock meant nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
The afternoon dragged.
The workshop felt unusually quiet.
Empty.
By five o'clock, he found himself listening for the sound of tires on gravel.
The realization hit hard.
Embarrassingly hard.
What the hell was wrong with him?
He was thirty-seven years old.
Not fourteen.
People didn't spend entire afternoons waiting for doctors to come home.
Especially not doctors they argued with regularly.
The logic made perfect sense.
Unfortunately, his brain seemed uninterested in logic.
The sound finally arrived just after six.
A truck turning into the driveway.
The familiar engine.
The familiar crunch of tires against gravel.
Relief followed instantly.
Automatic.
Unwanted.
Deck froze.
Standing motionless beside a workbench.
The realization landed a second later.
Relief.
Actual relief.
Because Finn was home.
The mechanic stared at the floor.
Horrified.
That wasn't normal.
Not even slightly.
He hadn't realized how tense he'd become until the tension disappeared.
Hadn't realized how aware he'd been of the doctor's absence until it ended.
The front door opened.
Closed.
Footsteps moved through the house.
Normal sounds.
Ordinary sounds.
Yet somehow the farmhouse felt different now.
Less empty.
The realization only made things worse.
A few minutes later, Finn appeared in the workshop doorway.
Still wearing clinic scrubs.
Tired but smiling.
The sight hit harder than expected.
The doctor looked genuinely happy to see him.
The thought sent something uncomfortable through his chest.
"Hey."
The greeting sounded casual.
Warm.
Familiar.
Deck cleared his throat.
"You're late."
The words emerged before he could stop them.
Finn blinked.
Then laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound echoed through the workshop.
"What?"
The mechanic immediately regretted speaking.
The doctor continued smiling.
"I had three emergency consultations."
Deck grunted.
As though that explained everything.
Which apparently it did.
Finn stepped farther inside.
Looking around.
Examining the project on the workbench.
The interaction felt easy.
Natural.
Dangerously natural.
The doctor talked about his day.
Patients.
Paperwork.
A nurse who accidentally spilled coffee on herself.
Nothing important.
Deck listened anyway.
More importantly, he wanted to listen.
The realization hit again.
Harder this time.
Because suddenly the pattern became obvious.
Painfully obvious.
He knew Finn's schedule.
His habits.
His routines.
His expressions.
His favorite foods.
His terrible taste in movies.
He noticed when the doctor smiled.
When he laughed.
When he looked tired.
When he looked happy.
And worst of all, he'd started measuring entire days around whether Finn was there.
The truth settled heavily inside his chest.
Unavoidable now.
The farmhouse felt empty when the doctor left.
And complete when he returned.
Deck stared at the half-finished engine sitting on the workbench.
Trying desperately not to think about what that meant.
Failing completely.
Because for the first time in years, he realized he wasn't spending his days waiting for recovery.
He wasn't waiting to return to work.
He wasn't waiting for his hands to heal.
He was waiting for Finn Ashford to come home.
And that realization scared him far more than any injury ever had.
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