Page 9 of Diesel
Her stomach tightened.“To me?”
“To the club.To Tom.Maybe both.”He picked up the next ceramic shard and pressed it into place with calm precision.“But you’re caught in the middle, sweetheart.That’s what worries me.”
The way he said “sweetheart” hit her harder than she expected.
She wrapped her arms around herself.“I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“I know,” he said.“But that doesn’t mean it won’t get worse before it gets better.”
His voice was low, serious.Protective.
She looked at him.“And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“This”—she gestured vaguely between them—“isn’t in your job description.”
Diesel didn’t answer right away.He finished pressing the final shard into place and ran a steady hand along the edge of the pot.Then he sat back on his heels and looked at her.
“I’ve failed before,” he said quietly.“Someone I should’ve protected.Someone who mattered.”
Sophie felt her breath catch.
He didn’t offer more.But the look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know.It had carved something deep in him, whatever had happened.Left a mark that hadn’t faded, maybe never would.
And now, here he was, guarding a small-town flower shop and fixing broken planters, like he could make up for whatever he’d lost.
“I’m not her,” Sophie said softly, though she wasn’t sure if she meant to say it out loud.
Diesel looked at her for a long moment.“I know.”
But the words didn’t ease the tightness in his jaw, or the shadows behind his eyes.They sat in silence after that, the sounds of the street returning around them—birds, distant traffic, the soft creak of the shop door swinging in the breeze.
Sophie reached out, brushing a bit of soil off his sleeve without thinking.He dropped his gaze to her hand.
She froze.“Sorry—”
But he didn’t move.Didn’t pull away.For a heartbeat, he stayed still, watching her like she was the most fragile and dangerous thing he’d ever seen.
Then he cleared his throat and stood.“I’ll grab some water for this.”
She nodded, her throat dry.“Right.Thanks.”
As he walked toward the spigot at the side of the building, Sophie pressed her palms to her cheeks.They were burning.
What was she doing?She barely knew this man.He was quiet, gruff, scarred by things he didn’t talk about.He wasn’t safe, not emotionally, anyway.
But he had shown up when no one else did.He stayed.He noticed the broken things, and instead of discarding them, he tried to make them whole again.That scared her more than anything.Because it made her want things—soft things, dangerous things.Things she didn’t think she was allowed to want anymore.
When Diesel returned, he knelt and poured a small amount of water into the newly fixed pot, brushing soil into place with his fingers.She watched him work, her heart thudding like a drum in her chest.
“It’s not perfect,” he said finally.
“It doesn’t have to be,” she replied.
He looked up.And this time, he didn’t look away.For the first time since the break-in, she felt steady again.Not because the danger was gone, but because he was there.
Even if he wouldn’t say it aloud, even if he was too wrapped up in guilt and rules and old wounds, Sophie could see it in the way he fixed the planter.In the way he looked at her.In the way his hand hovered just close enough to hers without ever touching it.
