"That's offensive."
"But accurate."
"Fair."
We're on our hands and knees—they're everywhere, multiplying, I'm convinced there are more now than when we started—when I stand again. I'm being careful this time, extra careful, watching my feet and my surroundings and making sure I don't hit anything. Except I don't see the air hose stretched across the floor.
My foot catches it. I trip, arms windmilling wildly, and catch myself on the counter. Which would be fine, would be a recovery, would be me salvaging this disaster. Except my elbow clips a coffee mug sitting too close to the edge and sends it flying.
I watch it arc through the air in slow motion, tumbling end over end, and I'm calculating the cost of replacing it, wondering if I can claim it as a work expense, when—
Holt catches it.
Without even glancing up. Doesn't break stride, doesn't shift focus, doesn't look away from the engine he's working on. Just reaches out with one grease-stained hand and plucks it from the air like he's done this a thousand times.
He sets it down carefully on his workbench. Goes back to what he was doing. Says nothing.
I stare at him. At his complete lack of reaction. At the way he just—caught that. Without looking. "How did you—"
"You're loud when you trip."
"I didn't even—you weren't looking—"
"Heard you." He still hasn't turned around. "You gasped. Foot scraped. Caught yourself. Elbow hit the mug." A pause. "Heard all of it."
"You heard all that? While working?"
"I'm paying attention."
The words hit different than they should. Land heavier. He's paying attention. To me. To where I am, what I'm doing, the sounds I make when I trip. He's been tracking me all morning. Listening. Aware of every movement. Ready to catch things before they break.
Finn's shoulders shake with silent laughter, hand pressed over his mouth, face turning red from the effort of not making noise.
I want to be embarrassed. I should be mortified. But I'm too impressed, and something warm unfurls in my chest—sharp and sudden, like sunlight breaking through clouds—at the way he said "I'm paying attention."
Not "I was" paying attention. Present tense. Ongoing. He's still doing it.
Despite the chaos, things are getting done. The desk is cleaner than it's been in years probably. Invoices filed correctly in their proper color-coded folders. Every phone call answered without saying anything that could be considered a fireable offense. Bolts mostly collected—we'll probably be finding strays for weeks but that's future Scout's problem. Nothing actively on fire.
I'm calling this a win.
Mid-afternoon the heat becomes unbearable. The kind that makes you question every life choice that led you to a place where air feels like soup. I'm sprawled in the office chair, fan pointed directly at my face, dignity completely abandoned.
"How do you people live here?" I don't bother sitting up. Can't. The heat's won. "This isn't weather. This is a threat. Thisis assault. This is—I need to file a complaint with God about this. Where's the suggestion box for the universe?"
Finn walks past, not even sweating, which seems unfair. "You get used to it."
"I don't want to get used to it. I want to stage a protest. I want to write my congressman. I want to move to Alaska."
"Alaska's cold."
"Good. Cold sounds amazing. Cold sounds like heaven. I would kill for cold right now."
"Give it time. You'll adjust."
"I will never adjust. I will tolerate. I will survive. But adjust? Love this heat? No. Never. Not happening. You could offer me a million dollars and I would still hate this."
"Get in line for the complaint box. That line's two thousand people deep and they all live in Coyote Bend."
