11. Riley #2
A metal bracket caught him near the collarbone.
The beam of Riley’s flashlight landed on his shirt.
Red spread through the fabric.
She crossed the floor toward him. “You’re bleeding. Get out from under that thing.”
“I’ve got it.” He winced, muscles shaking as he took the weight. “Help me get it back on the bench.”
Wade reached for the opposite side. “Let me take it.”
“Not until it’s back on the bench.”
Riley stopped beside them, keeping the light on the metal while Graham and Wade forced the rig upward. Blood had reached the collar of his shirt now, cutting a bright line through the grime.
“Graham, let Wade have it.”
He shoved the rig the last few inches onto the bench and kept both hands on it until Wade secured the clamp.
Only then did Graham look at her.
“Is the generator wired?”
“Yes. The breaker’s ready.”
“Then go.”
“You need to get away from this line before you tear that cut open any worse.”
Graham glanced down at the blood, then back toward the dead presses. “The rig’s secure. Flip the switch, Riley.”
She stayed where she was.
“Go,” he said. “I’ve got your back.”
The rig was secure, but blood still soaked Graham’s shirt.
Riley forced herself to step away and crossed to the electrical panel. She pinned the flashlight against the wall with her shoulder, freeing her shaking hand to grab the main lever. Behind her, Mac was still calling positions across the line while Wade kept one hand on the last secured rig.
“Hold everything where it is,” Riley said. “Nobody opens a clamp until I know the compressors are carrying the load.”
She hit the panel’s remote ignition switch and held her breath.
The generator outside coughed once.
Then it caught.
The shop lights flickered overhead. A second later, the compressors started with a rising mechanical growl, followed by the familiar hiss of pressure rushing back through the lines.
Mac threw one hand up. “Hold it there. Let the line build.”
Riley stayed at the panel while the machines came back to life around her. The dead silence of the blackout disappeared beneath motors, fans, and compressed air. Gauges climbed along the production line as each press returned to its required pressure.
“Do not touch a release yet,” Riley called. “Give the system time to settle.”
Mac moved to the closest press and checked the pressure dial on the first station. Then the next.
Riley watched him work down the row.
Finally, he straightened and dragged the back of his wrist across his forehead. “Pressure is locked in. Not one machine lost its grip on us.”
Wade leaned both forearms against the nearest crank wheel. “I am never talking trash about these antique monsters again.”
Mac gave the iron press a pat. “Respect your elders.”
Riley almost laughed, but she was already looking past them.
Graham stood near the workbench.
Full shop lighting made the cut look worse.
His shirt was streaked with sweat, rain, and black machine dust, blood weeping from the tear near his collarbone. One glove dangled from his fingers while the other rested on the bench.
“We all saved the batch,” Riley said, forcing herself to look back at Mac. “Let the compressors finish building pressure before anyone touches another clamp.”
Mac nodded. “Understood.”
Wade stepped away from the manual line and slapped Graham once between the shoulders. “Not bad for a guy who showed up in a sports car.”
Graham managed a tired smile. “Next time I’m bringing a truck.”
“Next time you’re mopping.” Wade pointed toward the delivery doors. “Water’s pooling out there. I’ll grab the mop before somebody else goes skating across the floor.”
“Go,” Riley said. “I’ll meet you out there in a minute.”
Wade headed toward the storage closet. Mac returned to checking the press gauges, already absorbed in the rescued order.
The emergency was over.
Riley let go of the panel.
Across the restored shop, Graham leaned against the workbench.
Riley walked to the wall cabinet and pulled down the first-aid kit, then grabbed her water bottle from the shelf beside it.
The shop had settled into its normal rhythm again, compressors cycling and motors running while rain drummed against the loading-bay roof.
None of that distracted her from Graham at the workbench, blood soaking the collar of his shirt.
She walked over and held out the bottle. “Drink some of that before you argue with me.”
Graham took it. “I wasn’t going to argue.”
“That would be a first.”
He offered a tired smile, but Riley had already set the kit on the bench and opened the lid. Gauze packets, tape, antiseptic wipes, scissors. Ordinary things. Easy things. Her thumb caught on the foil edge of the wipe packet, and she had to reset her grip to tear it open.
“You don’t have to do this,” Graham said.
“Apparently I do, because you’re still standing here bleeding on Mac’s workbench.”
He took another drink and let her step closer.
Riley hooked two fingers beneath the torn edge of his shirt and moved the fabric aside enough to expose the cut. The bracket had opened a long gash across the top of his collarbone. Blood had mixed with sweat and machine dust, and she needed to wipe the grime away just to find the edges of the cut.
“Hold still.”
She pressed the wipe to the first streak of blood.
Graham tensed.
“Still think it’s nothing?”
“It’s a scrape.”
“It’s a scrape that soaked through your shirt.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“On the ice, maybe. This is my shop.”
The words came out before she could stop them.
Her shop. Her problem. Somehow, without asking permission, he had stepped into both.
Riley folded the wipe to a clean edge and worked along the cut. The smell of alcohol rose between them. Graham lowered the bottle, watching her face now instead of her hands.
She should have handed him the kit. Mac kept mirrors in the washroom. Graham had two good hands and enough experience with cuts to clean one himself.
Instead, Riley stayed where she was.
Her fingers brushed the skin just below his collarbone as she steadied the wipe. He was warm beneath her hand, and for a second, it felt like the last six months hadn’t happened at all.
Graham went perfectly still.
Riley kept her eyes on the cut. “You’re still bleeding, Graham. Just hold still so I can clean this out.”
“Don’t stress over a scrape, Riley. It barely broke the skin.”
“Then this should be easy.”
She wiped away the last line of blood near the edge of the wound.
She kept her fingers against his skin.
Riley let the used wipe fall into the open kit and reached for a bandage. Graham set the water bottle on the workbench beside him without looking away from her. The restored compressors cycled behind them, filling the shop with steady mechanical noise.
She kept her eyes on the bandage, acutely aware of how close they were standing.
“Keep your shoulder still,” she said as she peeled the backing from the bandage.
“I am.”
“You were better at taking orders when the shop was falling apart.”
A brief smile fought through his exhaustion. “I’m trying to preserve the streak.”
Riley placed the center of the dressing over the cut and pressed one edge against his skin. He stayed still beneath her hands. No attempt to turn the moment into something larger. He didn’t reach for her waist just because she had stepped close enough to allow it.
She focused entirely on the tape, unsettled by how still he was standing for her.
She smoothed the second edge into place. Her fingers lingered against his bare skin near the tape before she caught herself, but she forced herself to finish sealing the dressing.
“You’re going to need to keep this clean,” she said. “And if it opens again, you’re getting it looked at by someone who owns more than a first-aid kit.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything.”
That was the problem.
For months, Graham had answered every closed door by pushing harder against it.
He had arrived in Georgia expecting five minutes, another conversation, another chance.
Somewhere between hauling freight, cleaning machine traps, and taking orders from Mac, he had finally stopped pushing for more than she was willing to give.
Riley pressed the final strip of adhesive down.
“I am worrying,” she said.
She let the truth stand without trying to backtrack.
She kept her hand near his shoulder. “You didn’t have to get yourself ripped open over a batch of leather.”
Graham looked at her. “I’d bleed on that concrete every day if it meant protecting you.”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“I mean it.”
She believed that he did.
That scared her more than the old arrogance ever had, because arrogance was easy to hate. The man standing here showed up, worked until his clothes were ruined, took the worst jobs without complaint, and accepted whatever scraps of attention she chose to give him.
Riley pulled her hand away.
She closed the first-aid kit, then stepped back.
Graham stayed beside the workbench.
He did not follow her.
He let her keep the distance between them.
Rain rattled against the loading-bay roof while Wade mopped up the pooling water near the doors and Mac checked the restored presses. The shop had survived. The order had survived.
Maybe something else had, too.
Riley looked at the clean bandage across Graham’s collarbone.
“Thank you for holding the line.”