Chapter 7 Falling
Beautiful Things
Deck spent three days pretending nothing had happened.
Three days pretending Finn hadn't found him sitting alone in the workshop.
Three days pretending he hadn't come dangerously close to falling apart in front of another human being.
Three days pretending the doctor hadn't seen more of him than anyone else had in years.
The strategy wasn't working.
Unfortunately.
The problem wasn't that Finn treated him differently afterward.
The doctor didn't.
That somehow made everything worse.
Most people would've become awkward.
Overprotective.
Careful.
Finn simply continued being Finn.
The same calm voice.
The same terrible habit of asking difficult questions.
The same quiet kindness that never seemed forced.
The same irritating ability to notice things.
The consistency should have been reassuring.
Instead, Deck found himself thinking about it entirely too much.
Thinking about him entirely too much.
The realization arrived gradually.
Like most dangerous things.
At first, he blamed recovery.
Being stuck together all the time naturally created familiarity.
Anyone would've noticed things.
Anyone would've paid attention.
That explanation worked for a while.
Then it stopped working.
Because noticing things wasn't the problem anymore.
The problem was liking them.
The farmhouse felt unusually quiet that Saturday morning.
Rain from earlier in the week had finally disappeared.
Sunlight spilled through the kitchen windows.
The smell of coffee filled the air.
Deck sat at the table pretending to read a parts catalog.
Pretending being the important word.
Because he'd been staring at the same page for nearly ten minutes.
Across the room, Finn stood at the kitchen counter preparing breakfast.
The doctor wore a dark green T-shirt and faded jeans.
Simple clothes.
Nothing remarkable.
Nothing special.
Yet somehow Deck found himself watching anyway.
The younger man moved easily through the kitchen.
Confident.
Comfortable.
Like he'd always belonged there.
The realization should have bothered him.
Instead, it felt strangely right.
Finn opened a cabinet.
Retrieved a bowl.
Then frowned.
The expression immediately caught Deck's attention.
"What's wrong?"
The question escaped before he could stop it.
Finn looked surprised.
Then amused.
"Dropped the last egg."
The mechanic blinked.
"That's it?"
The doctor held up the broken egg.
"Tragic."
Deck stared.
Several seconds passed.
Then Finn laughed.
The sound filled the kitchen.
Warm.
Easy.
The kind of laugh people only used when they felt safe.
The realization settled unexpectedly deep inside Deck's chest.
Because he liked hearing that sound.
Far more than he should.
The doctor eventually returned to cooking.
The mechanic returned to pretending he wasn't watching.
Neither performance proved convincing.
Breakfast passed quietly.
Comfortably.
Something that would've seemed impossible a month earlier.
Now it felt normal.
Dangerously normal.
The day continued.
Exercises.
Medication.
Recovery.
The usual routine.
Yet Deck found himself increasingly distracted.
Not by pain.
Not by therapy.
By Finn.
The problem had become impossible to ignore.
The doctor possessed dozens of small habits.
Tiny things.
Meaningless things.
Deck somehow knew all of them.
He knew Finn always read medical journals while drinking coffee.
He knew he preferred cold weather over hot weather.
He knew he secretly liked terrible reality television.
He knew he called his mother every Sunday afternoon.
He knew he always checked on elderly patients twice.
Even when he wasn't required to.
The information occupied space inside his head.
Permanent space.
The realization should've alarmed him sooner.
Instead, he'd accepted it naturally.
Like learning details about Finn mattered.
Like keeping track of them mattered.
The truth became harder to avoid with every passing day.
Especially when the doctor smiled.
That smile had become a problem.
A significant problem.
Because Finn smiled often.
At patients.
At children.
At friends.
At him.
The last category caused complications.
The mechanic discovered this one afternoon while accompanying Finn to the clinic.
A follow-up appointment required additional evaluations.
Nothing unusual.
The waiting room remained crowded.
Patients moved through hallways.
Nurses hurried between rooms.
Normal.
Deck sat near the reception desk while Finn reviewed paperwork.
The doctor looked completely different at work.
Confident.
Focused.
Certain.
The transformation fascinated him.
People listened when Finn spoke.
Not because he demanded it.
Because they trusted him.
The respect felt genuine.
Earned.
The sight did strange things to Deck's stomach.
Things he preferred not to examine closely.
A young nurse approached Finn with a question.
The conversation lasted less than a minute.
The doctor smiled at something she said.
The nurse smiled back.
Deck immediately disliked the interaction.
The reaction arrived so quickly he almost missed it.
Almost.
The irritation felt ridiculous.
The nurse hadn't done anything wrong.
Neither had Finn.
The conversation remained completely professional.
Yet something sharp twisted unpleasantly inside his chest.
Jealousy.
The realization hit like a hammer.
The mechanic nearly swore out loud.
Absolutely not.
No.
That wasn't happening.
The entire concept felt absurd.
He wasn't jealous.
He didn't get jealous.
Certainly not over doctors.
The explanation sounded convincing.
Until he spent the next twenty minutes watching every person who spoke to Finn.
Then it sounded considerably less convincing.
Wonderful.
Just wonderful.
The attraction was becoming a problem.
A serious one.
Because attraction alone could be ignored.
Managed.
Suppressed.
Deck had handled attraction before.
Physical attraction was simple.
People were attractive.
Sometimes very attractive.
Life continued.
Finn should've fallen into that category.
The doctor certainly qualified.
The younger man was objectively beautiful.
Deck had known that from the beginning.
Blue eyes.
Blond hair.
A smile capable of causing traffic accidents.
None of that represented the problem.
The problem was everything else.
The kindness.
The patience.
The compassion.
The way Finn remembered names.
The way he listened.
The way he cared.
The way he somehow made difficult days easier simply by existing nearby.
Physical attraction felt manageable.
This didn't.
Several days later, the realization finally cornered him.
The farmhouse living room remained quiet.
Evening sunlight filtered through the windows.
Finn sat on one end of the couch reading patient notes.
Deck occupied the opposite side pretending to watch television.
Pretending again.
Because his attention kept drifting.
Back toward the doctor.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Finn looked comfortable.
Relaxed.
One leg tucked beneath him.
Reading glasses perched low on his nose.
A slight crease appeared between his eyebrows whenever he concentrated.
The sight should have been ordinary.
Instead, Deck couldn't look away.
The realization arrived slowly.
Then all at once.
Like a door opening.
Because suddenly he understood.
He wasn't staring because Finn was attractive.
Although he was.
He wasn't staring because he liked looking at him.
Although he did.
The problem went deeper.
Much deeper.
Deck cared.
The truth settled heavily inside his chest.
Terrifyingly simple.
He cared whether Finn smiled.
He cared whether Finn ate lunch.
He cared when the doctor looked tired.
He cared when he laughed.
When he was happy.
When he was stressed.
When he came home.
When he left.
The feelings had grown roots without permission.
Without warning.
Without logic.
The mechanic stared across the room.
Watching sunlight catch in blond hair.
Watching those familiar blue eyes move across a page.
Watching a man who'd somehow become important.
Dangerously important.
Then Finn looked up.
Directly at him.
Their eyes met instantly.
The doctor blinked.
Clearly noticing he'd been watched.
Again.
A slow smile appeared.
Warm.
Questioning.
"What?"
The single word shattered whatever illusion remained.
Deck froze.
Because he suddenly realized he'd been staring.
Not for seconds.
For minutes.
Actual minutes.
The realization should've embarrassed him.
Instead, it clarified everything.
Physical attraction would've been easier.
Physical attraction would've been safer.
This wasn't that anymore.
Not even close.
Because somewhere between therapy sessions, shared meals, quiet mornings, and difficult conversations, Finn Ashford had become something far more dangerous.
Someone Deck genuinely cared about.
And that realization frightened him more than any injury ever could.
Safe
Finn had spent most of his career learning how to separate patients from their reputations.
The skill proved useful.
People lied about others constantly.
Sometimes intentionally.
Sometimes without realizing it.
A single mistake became a defining trait.
A single bad day became a permanent label.
A single rumor became accepted truth.
Willow Ridge loved talking.
The town especially loved talking about Declan Harlan.
According to local gossip, Deck was intimidating.
Difficult.
Antisocial.
Mean.
Several people had described him as scary.
One elderly woman at the grocery store had called him "that giant grump who lives with engines instead of people."
The description wasn't entirely inaccurate.
But it wasn't complete.
Not even close.
Because the longer Finn spent around him, the more obvious the truth became.
Deck wasn't cruel.
He wasn't heartless.
He wasn't even particularly angry.
He was guarded.
There was a difference.
A significant difference.
The realization settled deeper one afternoon while they were driving back from the clinic.
The appointment had gone surprisingly well.
Progress continued.