The Mechanic

-Chapter Twenty-Nine-

I must be dead.

For a moment she studies me, then she smiles a little.

"Did you miss me?" she murmurs.

I don't breathe.

"Mechanic," she says softly, pushing herself off of the floor. "It's alright."

And suddenly I'm holding her, and my lungs are crushing themselves against my ribs, and I'm almost positive that my pulse is dangerously fast. "You're... you're alive."

She holds me back. "And you're hurt."

"You're here."

I don't know how it's possible—is it?—but I don't question it.

My heart won't quiet. My lungs won't calm.

I'm a mess of wildness, and she's holding me like she isn't afraid of it.

"Are you real?" I whisper.

"I'm real." She pulls away long enough to look me steadily in the eyes. "And so are you. And it's okay."

I kiss her.

And perhaps it's too fast, and perhaps I didn't ask like I should, and perhaps we both just woke up, but I don't allow myself to care.

I'm overwhelmed.

"Mechanic," she says between kisses. "It's okay."

I press my forehead against hers. "I'm sorry."

"What?" She smiles a crooked smile, one hand set against the back of my neck.

"I shouldn't have gone after you," I say. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry."

She shakes her head, pressing a careful kiss to my lips. "You look like you've been through hell. There's no reason to be sorrier than you already are."

I study her face, still holding her close, and sigh softly. She looks back at me, her mouth turned up in a careful, vaguely wry smile. Her eyes are full of something like warmth. Like pity, patience.

"I went crazy," I whisper. "I don't think I know how to breathe on my own anymore. I need you around to remind me."

She laughs lightly. "If you'll keep breathing for me, I will keep reminding you to." Her eyes smile a little at me, vulnerable and soft. "And just so you know, I love you, Mechanic. You were no more to blame for that, than I was. I love you, I promise I do."

I frown, pain cinching my heart. "Don't say that, please."

She ignores me, lifting my hand to her lips. She kisses my cracked knuckles. "I said 'I love you.'" Her eyes are earnest. "I mean it. And I will, always."

I bury my face in her neck.

"You need to calm down," she whispers. "And think rationally for a moment."

I look at her.

"Stop feeling guilty. Don't let your mind go there, okay?"

I blink.

"You're mine, and I love you, but Paris, you're overdramatic." Her eyes search mine, rooting out thoughts of hurt and poetry. She laughs softly. "Calm down. I'm here. It's okay. And the past," —she motions to behind her with her hands— "it's way back there." She ducks her head so that I'm forced to look her in the eyes. "Okay? I love you. Just let it go."

I close my eyes, take a deep breath.

Her lips brush mine, softly, and I squeeze my eyes even further shut. She kisses me more fully, careful, gentle, persuasive.