He just nods. Doesn't say anything else. Goes back to work like this isn't huge, like this isn't everything, like he didn't just show me more care in a paper bag lunch than most people show in years.
But it is huge. It's enormous. Because this isn't just food. This is someone waking up on furniture that's destroying his spine and still thinking to make sure I had something to eat. This is someone who barely knows me noticing I forgot lunch and fixing it before I even realized it was a problem. This is care made physical, attention turned into turkey and cheese and a napkin folded just right.
I sit at the desk. Take the sandwich out with hands that are still shaking slightly. The first bite hits different—like I can taste the thought he put into this, the actual care, and it makes my chest ache. This isn't just throwing food in a bag. This is precise. Intentional. Someone paying attention to details like "she probably likes vegetables" and "not too much mustard" and "an apple, the good kind."
I'm halfway through when I realize I'm smiling—really smiling, the kind that makes my face hurt—and Finn catches me.
"He's a good guy," he says quietly, voice lower than usual. Serious. "Doesn't show it the way most people do. Doesn't talk about feelings or make big gestures or say the things people expect. But he pays attention. Sees things. Takes care of people without making it a thing. That's just who he is."
"Yeah." I look across the garage to where Holt's working, his hands sure and steady, grease-stained and scarred and perfect, and something warm settles deeper in my chest. Roots itself. "I'm starting to notice that."
"Good." Finn straightens up, grin back in place. "Because if you hurt him, I'll hide your body in the desert where nobody'll ever find it. Just so we're clear."
"Did you just threaten me?"
"Yep."
"While smiling?"
"I contain multitudes. I'm complex. Layered, even."
"That's deeply unsettling."
"Thanks. I've been practicing. You should see my knife collection."
"You don't have a knife collection."
"You don't know that. I could be a knife guy. I could have a whole knife situation happening."
"Do you?"
"No. But I could start. For you. For the aesthetic."
I'm laughing now, and across the garage Holt's shoulders relax slightly. Just slightly. But I notice.
The afternoon is when my nervous energy transforms into physical comedy. I'm filing invoices when I drop the entire stack—just completely lose my grip—and send them flying everywhere. They scatter across the floor, slide under the desk, drift beneath a car like they're trying to escape.
"Shit," I mutter, dropping to my knees. "Shit, shit, shit."
Finn appears, helping me collect papers. "Most people wait until week two before they redecorate the floor with important documents."
"I'm an overachiever."
"Clearly. Respect."
We're collecting papers—I've crawled half under a car like some kind of feral mechanic—when I stand up too fast. My knee catches the desk edge hard, pain shoots up my leg sharp and bright, and I stumble backward. Right into a bucket of bolts.
It tips. Time slows. I watch it happen in slow motion, powerless to stop it. Then it hits the floor.
Hundreds of tiny metal pieces scatter in every direction, rolling and bouncing and multiplying like they're reproducing, a wave of chaos that sounds like the end of the world. They ping off equipment, disappear into corners, slide under cars. The noise echoes through the garage, metal on concrete amplified by high ceilings and metal walls—a symphony of mockery that seems to go on forever, each ping a reminder of exactly how badly I just screwed up.
Finn dives out of the way, presses himself against the truck. "Incoming!"
I stand there in the epicenter, surrounded by automotive carnage, and think: this is it. This is how I get fired. Death by bolts.
"I swear I'm not usually this chaotic," I say to no one in particular.
"I don't believe you," Finn says, already grinning as he starts picking them up. "This feels very on-brand."
