He nods. We sit there a little longer, not talking, just breathing in the same space. His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand and I notice each small movement, the gentle pressure, the rough callus dragging against my skin. The sunlight shifts, warming my shoulders through the window. Gold light spilling through now, turning everything softer. Neither of us moves. We just sit here breathing together, and for the first time since he left, the space between us doesn't feel like a canyon.
It feels like patience.
Chapter 17
The invoice spreadsheet's giving me hell but in a good way—the kind of busy that keeps my brain from spiraling into the thousand what-ifs camped out in my skull waiting for their moment. Numbers make sense. Columns line up. No ambiguity. A plus B equals C, and C doesn't suddenly leave because it got scared.
"Holt." I don't look up from the screen because looking at him still does this thing to my pulse. "Mrs. Patter called. Wants to know if her Civic's ready."
"Tell her Wednesday." His voice carries from the garage, that specific rough edge he gets when he's knuckles deep in a stubborn engine. That Ford's been fighting him all morning—I can hear the clank of tools, the muttered "fucking hell" when something won't cooperate.
"Got it." I type the note, add it to the callback list, resist the urge to go watch him work.
That's it. That's the whole exchange. Work talk. Normal talk. The kind of conversation that shouldn't make my throat feel less tight but absolutely does.
Finn's grinning at me from under the hood of a Toyota. I catch him looking between Holt and me like we're performing some miracle he's been praying for, like two people having a normal work conversation is grounds for celebration. I roll my eyes at him. He winks back, returns to his oil change still smiling like an idiot.
I go back to finish the invoice, move to the next one. Someone's left grease fingerprints on the keyboard again. Probably Finn. Definitely Finn. I wipe it with my shirt without thinking, keep typing, notice that I'm humming under my breath and immediately stop because what am I, a Disney princess? Except the humming starts again two minutes later because apparently my body's decided we're happy now and won't take no for an answer.
This is good. This is really good. Working beside him without the weight of everything unsaid crushing the air between us into something toxic and unbreathable. Talking about Mrs. Patterson's Civic like it's the most important thing in the world because right now, in this moment, it kind of is. Small talk that means we're talking. Normal that means we survived.
My phone buzzes. Text from my mom that I can see the preview of without opening:We need to talk about your situation, Scout.
My stomach drops like I've missed a step in the dark. That formal first name she only breaks out when she's gearing up for a lecture. That "your situation" phrasing like my entire life is a problem to be managed.
Nope. Not today. Not when things are finally starting to feel stable, when Holt and I are carefully rebuilding something that might actually hold. I silence the phone, shove it in my pocket where it can't ambush me with more maternal disappointment. Whatever she wants can wait. Whatever guilttrip she's planning can stay in California where it belongs, preferably forever, maybe with a nice ocean view.
Holt glances over, catches my expression before I can school it. "You good?"
"Yeah." I force a smile, feel it wobble at the edges. "Just my mom being my mom. You know. The usual."
He nods, doesn't push. Goes back to the Ford.
I breathe out slow. Let my shoulders drop. Focus back on the invoices and the numbers that make sense and the fact that I'm here, in this garage, doing work I'm good at beside people who want me here.
Finn emerges from the garage, grinning. "Yo, Scout. You handle that brake pad guy?"
"Yep. Booked him for Thursday."
"Look at you. Professional and shit." He's being sarcastic but also genuinely impressed, that Finn way of showing affection through mockery. "Next you'll be doing oil changes."
"I'd rather stick needles in my eyes."
"That's the spirit." He grabs his keys, heads for the door. "I'm going on a parts run. Be back in an hour. Try not to make out on my workbench while I'm gone."
He's out the door before I can throw something at him, leaving me alone with the sound of his truck starting up, pulling out of the lot.
Leaving me alone with Holt.
The shop goes quieter without Finn's noise. Not silent—there's still the ceiling fan, still the cicadas, still the distant sound of traffic on the highway. But quieter. More intimate.
I go back to the invoices. Try not to be weird about it. We're fine. We're good. We had lunch together and it was nice and normal and—
The bell over the door chimes.
I look up expecting a customer with a normal Monday afternoon problem like a flat tire or a weird noise.
Instead I get a middle-aged white guy, face already red, clutching an invoice. The energy coming off him is aggressive and entitled and exactly the kind of shit that would've made me go find Holt when I first got here, back when I was new and scared and didn't know anything.
