Chapter 13 Fractured
Worthless
Recovery was supposed to make things easier.
That was the lie everyone told.
Doctors.
Physical therapists.
Friends.
Well-meaning strangers.
Everyone acted like healing moved in a straight line.
Pain improved.
Strength returned.
Life got better.
Simple.
Except reality wasn't simple.
Reality was standing in front of a workbench with a wrench in his hand and realizing he still couldn't move the way he used to.
Reality was waking up every morning and immediately checking whether his hands felt stronger.
Reality was watching everyone celebrate progress while knowing exactly how far he still had left to go.
The realization followed Deck everywhere.
Especially lately.
The physical recovery continued.
That wasn't the problem.
His grip strength improved every week.
The stiffness gradually eased.
The scars no longer looked quite so angry.
By every medical standard, he was winning.
Unfortunately, the victory felt hollow.
Because every improvement reminded him of what he'd lost.
The thought lingered as he stood inside the garage on a cold Tuesday morning.
Several employees worked nearby.
Engines hummed.
Tools rattled.
Life moved forward.
Deck stared at an engine block resting on a workbench.
Normally, the repair would've taken twenty minutes.
Thirty at most.
Today he was still struggling nearly an hour later.
His right hand slipped.
Pain shot through his wrist.
The wrench clattered against metal.
The sound echoed through the garage.
Silence followed.
Not real silence.
Just the silence inside his head.
The silence that appeared whenever frustration took over.
Deck stared at the wrench.
Motionless.
Furious.
Not at the tool.
At himself.
The old version of him would've finished the job already.
The old version wouldn't need to stop every few minutes.
Wouldn't need breaks.
Wouldn't need help.
The comparison felt poisonous.
Yet impossible to avoid.
A shadow appeared beside him.
Riot.
Of course.
The older mechanic looked at the half-finished repair.
Then at him.
Understanding immediately.
Unfortunately.
"You've been staring at that bolt for five minutes."
Deck grunted.
The observation wasn't helpful.
The older man folded his arms.
"Go home."
The mechanic looked up sharply.
"No."
The answer came instantly.
Riot sighed.
A familiar sound.
One normally reserved for stubborn idiots.
"You've been here since six."
"I'm fine."
The lie sounded terrible.
Kane clearly agreed.
The older mechanic pointed toward his hands.
"You're shaking."
Deck looked down.
The realization irritated him further.
Because Riot was right.
The tremor remained subtle.
Pain-induced.
Exhaustion-induced.
Still there.
The mechanic hated it.
More than he could explain.
The older man remained silent.
Waiting.
Eventually Deck looked away.
Toward the repair.
Toward failure.
Toward disappointment.
The conversation ended there.
Mostly because Riot knew pushing wouldn't help.
The older mechanic left.
The frustration remained.
Hours later, Deck finally abandoned the repair.
Tyler finished it in twenty minutes.
The sight nearly ruined his entire day.
The teenager didn't mean anything by it.
The kid simply completed the task.
Successfully.
Effortlessly.
The problem wasn't Tyler.
The problem was the reminder.
Everyone kept moving forward.
Everyone kept improving.
Everyone except him.
The thought followed him all the way to the clinic.
Finn had asked him to stop by after lunch.
Routine evaluation.
Routine therapy.
Routine suffering.
The usual.
The waiting room remained crowded.
As always.
Patients filled nearly every chair.
Construction workers.
Farmers.
Families.
The familiar rhythm of Willow Ridge surrounded him.
Deck settled into a seat near the back.
Prepared to wait.
Prepared to brood.
Prepared to hate everything.
Then Finn appeared.
And immediately forgot he was supposed to hate everything.
The doctor emerged from a treatment room carrying a patient file.
A smile appeared the moment he noticed an elderly woman struggling with a walker.
Without hesitation, Finn crossed the room.
Helping.
Supporting.
Listening.
The interaction lasted less than a minute.
Yet the woman's entire face changed.
The tension disappeared.
The worry eased.
The sight felt familiar.
Because Finn did this constantly.
The doctor moved through the world like kindness was automatic.
Effortless.
Natural.
The realization warmed something inside Deck.
Then immediately made him miserable.
Because Finn deserved someone extraordinary.
The thought arrived suddenly.
Uninvited.
Dangerous.
The mechanic frowned.
Trying to ignore it.
Failing.
Across the room, another patient approached.
A young mother carrying a crying toddler.
The child looked terrified.
Finn knelt beside her instantly.
Speaking softly.
Patiently.
Within moments the tears slowed.
Then stopped.
The little girl laughed.
Actually laughed.
The doctor smiled.
The child smiled back.
The sight hurt.
Not because it was bad.
Because it was beautiful.
And beautiful things deserved better than him.
The realization settled heavily inside his chest.
The thought followed him into the examination room.
Then into therapy.
Then into the drive home.
Refusing to leave.
Because every time he looked at Finn lately, he saw possibility.
Potential.
A future.
Everything he'd spent years believing he couldn't have.
The problem was that Finn could have it.
Just not with him.
The realization became impossible to ignore that weekend.
The clinic hosted a small community health event.
Nothing formal.
Just free screenings.
Basic checkups.
Health education.
The entire town seemed to show up.
Finn volunteered immediately.
Of course he did.
The doctor spent the entire morning helping people.
Answering questions.
Checking blood pressure.
Calming nervous patients.
The sight fascinated everyone.
Deck included.
The mechanic stood near the edge of the event.
Watching.
Observing.
Trying not to stare.
The usual.
Finn looked happy.
Genuinely happy.
The realization struck him unexpectedly.
Because happiness transformed him.
The doctor smiled more.
Laughed more.
Moved differently.
Everything about him seemed brighter.
Lighter.
The sight felt impossible to ignore.
People gravitated toward him naturally.
Children adored him.
Patients trusted him.
Strangers relaxed around him.
The effect remained astonishing.
A young veterinarian from the neighboring town spent nearly twenty minutes talking to Finn.
The man looked successful.
Confident.
Attractive.
Normal.
Everything Deck wasn't.
The sight shouldn't have bothered him.
It did.
Not because of jealousy this time.
Because of comparison.
The veterinarian fit.
The thought arrived instantly.
Cruelly.
Someone like that made sense.
Educated.
Successful.
Whole.
Not broken.
Not haunted.
Not carrying enough baggage to sink a ship.
The realization settled heavily.
Poisonously.
The conversation ended eventually.
The veterinarian left.
Finn returned to work.
Nothing happened.
Yet the damage remained.
The mechanic couldn't stop comparing.
Couldn't stop imagining alternatives.
Better options.
Better futures.
Better men.
The thoughts followed him home.
Into the workshop.
Into the darkness.
Into every quiet moment afterward.
That evening he sat alone at a workbench.
The familiar smell of oil and metal surrounded him.
Normally comforting.
Tonight it wasn't.
The garage remained empty.
Silent.
The perfect place for self-destruction.
Because no one interrupted.
No one argued.
No one pointed out how ridiculous he was being.
The mechanic stared at his hands.
The scars remained visible beneath workshop lighting.
Permanent reminders.
Of the explosion.
Of the recovery.
Of everything he'd lost.
The sight felt symbolic somehow.
Broken.
Functional.
But never quite the same.
Like him.
The realization lingered.
Painfully.
Because Finn spent every day helping people.
Healing people.
Saving people.
The doctor deserved someone capable of giving that same kind of strength back.
Someone dependable.
Someone complete.
Someone who didn't wake up from nightmares.
Someone who wasn't carrying years of guilt.
Someone who didn't constantly wonder whether he deserved happiness.
The truth settled heavily inside his chest.
Finn deserved better.
The doctor deserved someone stronger.
Healthier.
Less damaged.
And as Deck sat alone in the workshop watching evening shadows stretch across the floor, he became more convinced than ever that loving Finn wasn't the problem.
The problem was believing someone as good as Finn could ever truly want someone like him.
Chosen
Finn knew something was wrong.
The realization arrived slowly.
Not through words.
Through absence.
The absence of things he'd grown accustomed to.
Deck still smiled.
Still kissed him goodbye in the mornings.
Still asked about his day.
Still sat beside him during dinner.
On the surface, everything looked normal.
The problem was that Finn knew him now.
Really knew him.
And the mechanic was retreating.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
The same way wounded animals retreated when they were hurting.
The same way people pulled away when they became afraid.
The doctor noticed it everywhere.
The pauses before answers.
The distracted silences.
The way Deck seemed lost inside his own head.
The way he watched Finn when he thought nobody noticed.
The sadness hidden behind those looks.
The realization followed him through an entire week.
A frustrating week.
Because every time Finn tried asking what was wrong, the mechanic brushed him off.
"I'm fine."
The lie became routine.
Predictable.
And increasingly annoying.
By Friday evening, Finn had lost patience.
Not because he was angry.
Because he was scared.
Scared that Deck was convincing himself to walk away.
The possibility had been growing louder every day.