Finn's grinning at me now, something delighted in his expression. "That was the most chill response ever."
"What was I supposed to do, freak out?"
"Most people do."
"Well, we have already established I'm not like most people." I'm already focused on the invoice again, filing it in the correct folder. "Besides, it's not like it's my business. He's still fixing cars and being all competent and broody and whatever. The leg doesn't change any of that."
Finn looks at Holt. Holt's watching me with something in his eyes I can't quite read—surprise maybe, or relief, or gratitude that I didn't make it weird. That I just... accepted it and moved on.
"Scout!" Finn's voice breaks the moment. "Phone!"
I grab the invoice and retreat. But when I glance back, Holt's still watching me. Just for a second before he returns to work.
Later, when I'm filing in the back office, I hear Finn's voice, quiet and serious in a way he rarely gets.
"I like her."
"Yeah." Holt's voice, just as quiet. "Me too."
Progress. I'm calling that progress.
The afternoon brings chaos in the form of a tow truck and my apparently-suicidal car. Holt's arranged to have it towed to the shop so he can actually look at it instead of just diagnosing from a distance. I watch them wheel it into the bay and my stomach drops because seeing it here, in pieces, surrounded by tools and competent people who know what they're doing, makes the whole situation feel more real. More permanent. I can't just ignore it anymore.
"Don't panic," Finn says, appearing at my shoulder. "It's fixable."
"How do you know?"
"Because Holt said it's fixable, and Holt doesn't lie about cars." He bumps my shoulder. "He'll figure it out. Might take a minute, but he'll get you running again."
"I can't afford—"
"One problem at a time, Gremlin." Not dismissive, just practical. "Let him diagnose it first. Then we'll worry about money."
Holt's already got the hood up, bent over the engine with focus he gets when he's working—the kind of concentration that blocks out everything else. I should go back to my desk. Let him work. Except I can't seem to move.
He straightens up after a few minutes. "Your radiator's shot. Probably been leaking for a while."
"How bad?"
"Needs replacing. Plus some hoses. Thermostat's questionable." He's already making a list in his head, I can tell. "I can order the parts. Do the work myself."
"How much?"
"Parts'll run you around three hundred. Labor's free."
I blink. "Free?"
"You work here." He says it like it's obvious. Simple math. "Consider it part of your benefits package."
"Holt, I can't—"
"You can." Flat. Final. "I'm not charging you labor for work I can do in an afternoon."
"That's not fair to you—"
"Scout." He looks at me now, something gentler in his eyes. "Let me fix your car. Please."
The please does it. Undoes something in my chest. He's not demanding, not insisting—asking. Giving me the choice. Trusting me to accept help.
