"Still. That was good work." He's looking at me with something that makes my stomach flip, makes heat rise to my face. Not surprise exactly. More like confirmation. Like he's seeing something he suspected all along but is just now watching me prove.
"You're good at this," he says.
"At what?"
"This. The shop. Dealing with people. Organizing the chaos." He gestures vaguely at the desk, the files, the phone that never stops ringing. "You've made this place run smoother than it has in years."
I blink at him. Process that. Feel something warm and solid settling in my stomach—not the fluttery anxiety from before, but real confidence. Real pride.
"Yeah," I say slowly, letting the truth of it sink in as I speak. "I think I am. Good at this, I mean."
This isn't temporary. This isn't a placeholder.
This is mine.
"You are," Holt confirms. Like it's fact. Like there's no question. Like he's known it for weeks and has just been waiting for me to catch up.
My throat gets tight. "Thank you. For seeing that."
"Hard to miss."
We stand there for a moment, this truth floating between us in the heat-thick air.
"Okay, well." I clear my throat, break the moment before it gets too intense. "Back to work. These invoices aren't going to process themselves."
He nods, almost-smiles, heads back to the garage.
And I sit there at my desk with this glowing thing spreading through me that feels suspiciously like belonging. Like home.
Holt emerges from the garage at closing, wiping his hands on a rag that's seen better decades. He's got that end-of-day look too—hair stuck to his forehead, tank top dark with sweat, another smudge of grease across his jaw that he definitely doesn't know about.
"You heading up?" I ask.
"Yeah. You?"
"Give me five minutes. Need to finish the deposit."
He nods, heads for the stairs. I watch him go, notice the slight hitch in his step that means his leg's bothering him.
I finish the deposit, lock it in the safe, do my final walk-through. Lights off. Doors locked. Everything secure. Then I head upstairs to find Holt already in the kitchen, pulling two beers from the fridge.
He hands me one without asking. I take it, press the cold bottle to my neck where the heat's been living all day. Sweet relief.
"Couch?" he asks.
"Couch."
We settle into our usual spots—me in the corner with my feet tucked under me, him on the other end sprawled out in the process of taking off his prosthetic. There's less space between us than there used to be. Not touching, but close. Comfortable.
The AC's doing its best impression of functionality. The laptop's still on the coffee table from whenever, screen dark. We don't turn anything on. Just sit there in the gathering dusk, drinking our beers, existing in the same space without needing to fill it.
It's nice. Really nice. The kind of quiet that feels like peace instead of tension.
I take a long drink, feel the cold spread through me. Courage, liquid form. Because there's something I want to ask and I'm not sure how to start except just... starting.
"Can I ask you something?"
His eyes flick to mine. "Yeah."
