Page 61 of Dirty Mechanic
It’s gravity.
The world shifts, and something inside me finally clicks into place.
We celebrate the only way we know how. With pie, whiskey, music, and unfiltered laughter. The baby claps his sticky hands. Joanne squeezes Annabelle’s arm like she’s trying to make sure she’s real. My parents embrace me like I’m still the boy they raised and the man they now respect.
Blake claps a hand on my shoulder, his grin wry. “You happy?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice rough. “I really am.”
“You deserve it.”
“Thanks.”
He pulls me in for a one-armed hug. “Don’t screw it up, old man.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But I’m dreaming now. I have to be. Because I never thought I’d get this. Not after everything I’ve done. Not after everything she’s endured.
And then—it’s time.
Goodnights are whispered like secrets. Misty’s tearful. Emma’s radiant. Joanne’s still dabbing her eyes. The baby waves his pudgy hand at us, like he knows something just changed forever.
And then, we’re alone.
I scoop Annabelle into my arms. Her dress flutters, brushing against my forearm. Her breath catches as I lift her like she weighs nothing.
“Where are we going?” she whispers, her lips brushing my ear.
I kiss the soft curve of her temple. “To make this official.”
She shivers against me, and my blood runs hotter than any bonfire.
I carry her upstairs, heart pounding, soul full.
My wife.
My future.
My reason for risking everything, because loving her isn’t just emotional anymore.
It’s political. Legal. Dangerous.
But it’s also the only thing that’s ever made me feel alive.
So even if Mike Bishop isn’t done yet?—
I’ll make sure this ends with me.
The bedroom is wrapped in moonlight and hush. That kind of hush that makes you believe in sacred things. In second chances. In men who kiss bruises and scars away.
Silver light spills through gauzy curtains, draping across the wood floor and over the bed like a blessing. The air holds a faint mix of cedar and cinnamon—Derek’s skin and the ghost of pies from the kitchen below. It smells like home. Like him. Like us.
He carries me across the bedroom’s threshold like some kind of storybook, but the look in his eyes isn’t fictional. It’s full of reverence and restraint and the sort of quiet promise that doesn’t need words to be believed.
He lowers me onto the bed. His eyes stay locked on mine as he kneels, placing his palms on either side of my calves, thumbs brushing slow circles over my skin. My pulse skitters. I should be used to his touch by now. But there’s something different tonight. Something deeper. More raw.
“You okay?” His voice is low, nearly lost in the sound of the breeze outside.
