"Three days is temporary! Temporary is anything under a week. Under a month, even. Time is a construct."
"That's not—" Holt stops, shakes his head like he's given up. "That's not how time works."
"Says who?"
"Says the dictionary. Says physics. Says every clock ever made."
"The dictionary's never run an auto shop. Neither has physics. Or clocks. None of them know what it's like in the trenches."
I'm looking between them, caught in this ongoing battle that clearly predates my arrival by years. "So... green folder?"
Holt meets my eyes. His face does a complicated thing—acknowledgment that I'm trying to navigate this minefield, appreciation maybe, something that looks almost like approval. "Green folder."
"Dictator," Finn mutters, but he's grinning.
"Anarchist," Holt replies, completely deadpan.
"That's the nicest thing you've ever called me. I'm touched. Truly."
I file the invoice in the green folder. Holt nods once—just once, barely a movement—and goes back to work. Finn mouths "thank you" at me and winks.
By noon I've made progress. The desk looks almost functional. I've answered six more calls without saying anything inappropriate. I've only dropped things twice. This counts as a successful morning.
My stomach growls loud enough that Finn hears it from across the garage.
"Someone's hungry."
"Yeah." I forgot to pack lunch. Didn't even think about it. "I should run to Sunny's, grab something for everyone. What do you want? Sandwiches? Soup? I think Sunny has really good pie,or at least that's what Abe and Nadine were saying, so I could grab pie, or maybe just coffee, do you need coffee? I could do a coffee run—"
"You don't have to do that," Finn says gently.
"I want to! It's my first day. I should do something nice. Make a good impression. Show that I'm useful and not just the disaster who kicked over a bucket of bolts—wait that hasn't happened yet. Forget I said that. Pretend you didn't hear that—"
Holt walks past, doesn't break stride, doesn't look at me. "Back fridge. Help yourself."
I blink. Walk to the back fridge, pull it open. Beer. Electrolyte drinks in colors that don't exist in nature. Something questionable in Tupperware that I'm not touching. And—
A brown paper bag with my name on it.
Written in neat, precise handwriting. Scout. Just my name, letters formed careful and clear like someone took their time.
I stare at it. My hands are shaking—actually shaking, trembling at the edges—and I have to set the bag down on the counter just to steady myself because I don't trust my grip. Don't trust my hands. Don't trust anything right now because my throat's gone tight and my eyes are burning and I'm about to cry over a lunch I didn't ask for.
"Holt made you lunch," Finn says, appearing beside me with a grin that says he knows exactly what this means.
My head snaps toward Holt across the garage. He's very deliberately not looking at me, focused on the engine in front of him like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.
"You didn't have to do that." My voice comes out smaller than I want. Quieter. Shaking at the edges. "I could've—I would've figured something out, I always figure something out, you didn't have to—"
"You didn't have food." He still won't look at me. His hands keep working, methodical and steady and sure. "Figured you wouldn't think to pack any."
He's right. I didn't think. Didn't plan. Showed up to my first day without lunch like an idiot.
I open the bag and my fingers fumble with the fold. Sandwich. Turkey and cheese, lettuce still crisp and cold, tomato sliced thin and even, mustard but not too much. Apple—red and perfect, the kind that probably cost more than the cheap green ones. Bag of chips. A napkin folded with the same care as everything else he does, corners meeting precise.
Nobody's made me lunch since—I can't even remember. Middle school? My mom, before everything got complicated and cold? Maybe nobody's ever just made me food because they thought I might need it. Because they were paying attention. Because they cared.
My throat closes completely. I have to swallow once, twice, three times before I can speak, and even then my voice shakes. My eyes burn and I blink hard, willing myself not to cry over a sandwich in a brown paper bag in the middle of an auto shop on my first day. That would be insane. That would be the kind of emotional disaster that gets people fired. "Thank you."
