Chapter 15 Heartbreak #2
Absolute silence.
The kind that settled deep inside a person's bones.
The kind that made empty spaces feel bigger.
The kind that reminded you exactly what you'd lost.
The mechanic remained standing in the doorway long after the truck vanished.
The cool night air drifted across the porch.
Crickets sang somewhere beyond the fields.
Life continued.
The realization felt insulting.
Because his world had just fallen apart.
Eventually the front door swung shut behind him.
The sound echoed through the farmhouse.
Louder than it should have.
Everything felt louder.
The clock ticking in the kitchen.
The refrigerator humming.
The floorboards creaking beneath his boots.
Normal sounds.
Yet without Finn, they felt wrong.
Like something essential had been removed.
The mechanic stood in the middle of the living room.
Looking around.
The house appeared exactly the same.
The couch remained where it always had.
Books still occupied the shelves.
Coffee mugs still sat beside the sink.
Nothing had changed.
Except everything.
His gaze drifted toward the blanket folded neatly over the arm of the couch.
Finn's blanket.
The doctor always used it during movie nights.
The sight hit unexpectedly hard.
A physical blow.
Because suddenly he could see it.
Finn curled beneath that blanket.
Laughing at terrible movies.
Arguing about plot holes.
Falling asleep against his shoulder.
The memory surfaced instantly.
Painfully.
The mechanic looked away.
The silence remained.
Mocking him.
Reminding him.
The farmhouse had always been quiet.
He'd liked it that way.
Preferred it.
Needed it.
For years, solitude had felt safe.
Comfortable.
Necessary.
Now it felt unbearable.
The realization followed him into the kitchen.
A second coffee mug sat drying beside the sink.
Finn's favorite mug.
White ceramic.
Slightly chipped.
The doctor refused to throw it away.
Claimed it had character.
Deck stared at it.
Longer than necessary.
Long enough for his chest to start hurting.
Because the stupid mug shouldn't matter.
None of this should matter.
Yet somehow everything did.
The mechanic rubbed a hand across his face.
Exhaustion settled heavily over him.
Not physical exhaustion.
Something worse.
The kind that came from grief.
The kind that hollowed people out from the inside.
The kind he recognized immediately.
He'd felt it before.
Years ago.
The realization made his stomach turn.
No.
This wasn't the same.
It couldn't be.
The comparison felt wrong.
Disrespectful.
Yet the ache remained.
The loneliness remained.
The loss remained.
And all of it centered around one person.
Finn.
The mechanic eventually forced himself toward the bedroom.
Sleep seemed impossible.
Still necessary.
The room looked different.
The realization hit immediately.
The second pillow remained untouched.
The bedside table sat empty.
No medical journals.
No reading glasses.
No half-finished books.
The absence felt enormous.
The doctor had occupied the farmhouse for months.
Long enough to leave traces everywhere.
Long enough to become part of the place.
Long enough to become part of him.
The thought hurt.
A lot.
Deck sat heavily on the edge of the bed.
The mattress shifted.
The movement triggered another memory.
Finn asleep beside him.
Peaceful.
Safe.
Real.
The mechanic closed his eyes.
The image remained.
Refusing to leave.
Because every corner of the house contained him.
Every room.
Every memory.
Every routine.
The realization settled heavily.
He hadn't just lost a boyfriend.
He'd lost his best friend.
The person he spoke to first every morning.
The person he looked for at the end of every day.
The person who made the farmhouse feel like home.
The truth hurt more than he could explain.
Sleep never came.
The mechanic spent most of the night wandering.
Kitchen.
Living room.
Porch.
Workshop.
Anywhere except the bedroom.
The emptiness followed him anyway.
At two in the morning, he found himself standing inside the workshop.
The familiar smell of oil and metal surrounded him.
Normally comforting.
Tonight it wasn't enough.
Nothing was.
The workbench sat exactly where it always had.
Tools hung neatly on the wall.
Half-finished projects waited patiently.
The sight should have grounded him.
Instead, he remembered Finn.
The doctor standing nearby during recovery.
Watching him rebuild engines.
Asking questions.
Pretending not to be fascinated.
The memory made him smile.
Briefly.
Then hurt all over again.
Because there wouldn't be new memories.
Not anymore.
Only old ones.
The realization hollowed him out.
Hours passed.
Dawn eventually arrived.
Pale sunlight crept across the property.
The farmhouse remained silent.
The coffee maker never started automatically.
Nobody came downstairs.
Nobody laughed.
Nobody reminded him to take medication.
Nobody existed except him.
The loneliness felt crushing.
The mechanic sat at the kitchen table.
Staring at two empty chairs.
One occupied.
One not.
The symbolism felt ridiculous.
Yet there he sat anyway.
Like an idiot.
Like a man who had finally destroyed the best thing that ever happened to him.
The truth settled into place slowly.
Then all at once.
He loved Finn.
Not falling.
Not caring.
Loved.
Completely.
Hopelessly.
The realization should have felt comforting.
Instead it felt devastating.
Because love didn't matter if the other person wasn't there.
Love didn't matter if he'd pushed him away.
Love didn't matter if he spent so much time trying to protect Finn that he'd forgotten one important thing.
Finn never asked to be protected from him.
The doctor asked to be trusted.
And Deck had failed.
The truth hit harder than any explosion.
Harder than any injury.
Harder than any nightmare.
Because for months he'd been terrified of losing the use of his hands.
Terrified of losing the garage.
Terrified of losing his independence.
Now all of those fears seemed insignificant.
Meaningless.
The explosion had nearly destroyed his body.
Losing Finn had destroyed something much worse.
The mechanic lowered his head into his hands.
The farmhouse remained silent around him.
Empty.
Cold.
Wrong.
And for the first time since the explosion, Declan Harlan finally understood something devastating.
Losing the use of his hands would have healed eventually.
Losing Finn might not.
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