I grab an invoice—coolant system repair—and walk over to where Holt's working. He's bent over an engine, arms covered in grease up to his elbows, that tank top doing absolutely nothing to hide the way his shoulders move when he works.
Focus, Scout.
Educational purposes only.
"Hey," I say. "Quick question."
He glances up. One eyebrow raises—his version of "I'm listening."
"Coolant system." I hold up the invoice. "Finn said yesterday it's like anger management for cars, which I'm pretty sure is nonsense, but now I'm curious. What does it actually do?"
He straightens up, wiping his hands on a rag that's probably making them dirtier. "Keeps the engine from overheating. Coolant circulates through the engine block, absorbs heat, runs through the radiator where it cools down, then cycles back."
"So it's basically—what, the car's hydration system? Keeps everything from catching fire?"
"Oversimplified, but yeah." He's watching me with something that might be interest. Not just answering to be polite, but engaged. "That's the core function."
"And if it fails?"
"Engine overheats. Could warp the cylinder head, blow the head gasket." He uses his hands to demonstrate. "Expensive fix. Usually means someone ignored maintenance or there's a leak that wasn't caught early."
I'm leaning against his workbench now, genuinely fascinated. The heat's making his hair damp, and there's a streak of grease on his jaw he hasn't noticed. "How do you know it's failing before it's catastrophically too late?"
"Temperature gauge spikes—first sign. Coolant pooling under the car—usually green or orange, depending on type. Steam from under the hood."
"So you can catch it early if you're paying attention."
"Most people don't pay attention." He almost-smiles. "They ignore the warning signs until the car won't start and then they're surprised it's expensive."
"That feels like a metaphor for something."
"Probably." He picks up a socket wrench. "You ask a lot of questions."
"Is that a problem?"
"No." He meets my eyes. "Most people don't bother learning. Just want their car fixed."
"I'm not most people."
"No. You're not."
The moment stretches and I should probably move, should go back to my desk, but I don't want to. I want to stay here in this bubble where he's looking at me like I matter, like my questions matter, like—
A small metal part rolls across the floor, disappearing under Holt's workbench. He sets down his wrench and crouches to retrieve it. There's a sound—mechanical, distinct, a solid CLICK as he moves—and I almost miss it under the general noise of the shop.
But Finn doesn't miss it. He looks over from where he's working, grinning. "Your leg need a new bolt or something?"
I blink. "What?"
Holt straightens up, the metal part in his hand, and both he and Finn look at me. There's a beat where they realize—I have no idea what Finn's talking about. I'm confused, looking between them like they're speaking a language I don't understand.
Holt lifts his right pant leg without fanfare, without hesitation, just pulls the fabric up to reveal carbon fiber and metal where his leg should be. A prosthetic from above the knee down, sleek and functional and completely matter-of-fact.
"Oh," I say. Process. "You have a prosthetic."
"Yeah." He drops the pant leg, tosses the part to Finn in one smooth motion like absolutely nothing just happened, like he didn't just reveal something most people would consider significant.
"Cool. Okay." I go back to my invoice, brain already moving past it because what else is there to say? He has a prosthetic leg. And? That changes nothing about who he is or how he works or anything that actually matters.
