Page 46 of Fire Me Up
I stared at the message, thumb hovering over the screen. What could I possibly say? Sorry, I couldn’t handle watching you with someone else even though I pushed you toward him? Sorry, I’m falling for you, but I’m too fucking scared that you won’t like me when
Another text came through:
Did you leave?
Dylan, please. Can we talk? It’s just Colorado Springs. I’ll be back, I swear.
I turned off my phone, tugging on my jeans. I couldn’t do this. Couldn’t pretend to be happy for him. Couldn’t face the inevitable moment when he realized I was too much, too intense, too needy.
And I knew without a doubt that I was already in too deep.
Chapter 15
Dylan
Istripped the carburetor for the third time, my fingers slipping on the tiny screws like a fucking amateur. Five days without seeing Gael, and suddenly I couldn’t remember how to do the shit I’d been doing since I was fourteen. Each part I removed looked wrong somehow, foreign in my hands. I tossed another screw into the parts tray, missing completely. It pinged across the workshop floor, disappearing under a workbench. Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
“Goddammit.” I set the half-disassembled carburetor down harder than necessary, ignoring the concerned glance from Lennox across the shop.
The Honda CB750 I was supposed to be fixing stared back at me accusingly, its guts splayed across my workbench. The owner wanted it running by the weekend, and at this rate, he’d be lucky to get it back before Christmas. I needed gaskets. I was sure I’d grabbed the gasket kit earlier, but it wasn’t on my bench. Had I even ordered them? I couldn’t fucking remember.
I dragged my hands through my hair, leaving behind streaks of grease I’d regret later. My brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton, every thought sticky and slow. This was why I kept things casual. The moment feelings got involved, I turned into a distracted, useless mess.
“Going to the parts room,” I announced to no one in particular. Lennox nodded without looking up from the brake assembly he was working on.
The narrow hallway to the parts storage felt longer than usual. My phone burned a hole in my back pocket, heavy with unanswered texts from Gael. Seven of them, to be exact. Not that I was counting. Not that I’d read each one a dozen times, thumb hovering over the reply button before chickening out.
The parts room was organized chaos—shelves packed with everything from brake pads to spark plugs, all meticulously labeled in Liv’s precise handwriting. I stood in the doorway, suddenly unable to remember what I’d come for.
“Fucking focus, Dylan.” I smacked the side of my head lightly, as if I could physically knock my thoughts back into order.
Gaskets. I needed gaskets for a Honda CB750. I scanned the shelves, pulling open drawers at random. Where would they even be? Liv had reorganized recently, and I couldn’t remember the new system. Or maybe I’d never bothered to learn it in the first place.
My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I froze mid-search. Before I could talk myself out of it, I pulled it out.
Gael.
A simple text: “Miss you” with a photo attached. I opened it, my heart squeezing painfully in my chest. Gael stood in front of a fire truck, surrounded by his crew, all in uniform. His smile was bright, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked good—fucking beautiful, actually—but something was missing from his expression. The spark I’d gotten used to seeing.
I leaned back against the shelving unit, knees suddenly weak. I missed him so much it felt like a physical wound, raw and throbbing. The urge to text back, to call him, to jump on my bike and ride to Colorado Springs was overwhelming.
But what would I even say? “Sorry I ghosted you after pushing you toward another guy then running away like a coward”? “Sorry I’m a fucking mess who can’t handle real feelings”? “Sorry I’m falling for you and it terrifies me”?
I closed the photo, but couldn’t bring myself to put the phone away. Gael kept reaching out, sending me these little lifelines, and I was too scared to grab one. Too scared of what would happen if I let myself need him, want him, love him. Too scared of the inevitable moment when he’d realize I was too much work, too chaotic, too intense.
Better to end it now. Better to be the one who walked away first.
Except it didn’t feel better. It felt like I was slowly tearing myself apart.
I shoved my phone back in my pocket and resumed my search, pulling open drawers with more force than necessary. What the fuck was I even looking for again? Gaskets. Right. For the Honda. Except now I couldn’t remember which specific gaskets I needed.
“Fuck this.” I slammed the drawer shut and stalked back toward the shop, empty-handed and furious with myself.
I was halfway through the door when I heard Liv’s voice, low and concerned. I froze, suddenly not wanting to be seen.
“I’m worried about him,” she was saying. “He’s working himself to exhaustion again. Fifteen-hour shifts, volunteering for extra calls. It’s like before the accident.”
“You know how he gets.” That was Marisol’s voice, softer but equally worried. “Work is his coping mechanism. Always has been.”
