"Okay," I whisper. "Thank you."
He nods once and goes back to the engine, but the tension in his shoulders has eased. Like my acceptance mattered. Like he was worried I'd refuse.
I file this moment away under "things that make my chest hurt in ways I don't understand yet" and go back to my desk before I do something stupid like cry over car repair.
Around lunchtime, I'm deep in paperwork when Finn's voice cuts through the garage.
"Bet you can't finish that brake job before lunch."
I look up. Holt's working on someone's sedan, methodical and focused. He glances at Finn. "What's the wager?"
"Loser buys lunch."
"Deal."
And then they're both moving, and I realize I'm watching an actual competition unfold. Finn's fast—almost reckless, hands flying through the work with efficiency that borders on chaotic. Holt's methodical, but not rushing either. Two completely different approaches to the same job.
I abandon my filing to watch. It's fascinating—the way they work, the way they've clearly done this a thousand times,the way they know each other's rhythms well enough to compete without ever looking at each other's progress.
Holt finishes first. Barely. Maybe thirty seconds before Finn.
"Dammit." Finn straightens up, wiping his hands on a rag. "I was so close."
"Close doesn't count."
"It should. I'm petitioning for a points system based on proximity."
"No."
Twenty minutes later, Finn returns from Sunny's with burgers and fries for everyone. He hands Holt his food, then walks over to the whiteboard with dramatic flair. Grabs the marker. Adds a single tally mark under Holt's name with the kind of ceremony usually reserved for important life events.
"You actually keep track?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"We've been doing this for eight years," Finn says, stepping back to admire his work. "I'm not losing by default."
"Who's winning overall?"
"Currently me. But it's close. Very close. Uncomfortably close, actually."
"I'll catch up," Holt says quietly, biting into his burger.
"Keep dreaming."
I'm grinning, watching them, and something warm creeps into my chest.
This.
This is what I wanted to be part of—this easy camaraderie, this history, this thing they have that's been building for years. And somehow, impossibly, they're letting me in.
That evening, the couch sounds worse than usual. The springs aren't just groaning anymore—they're shrieking.Protesting. Staging a full rebellion against the laws of physics and furniture design. I lie in bed listening to Holt shift, adjust, shift again, and the guilt sits so heavy in my chest I can barely breathe.
This has to stop. I can't keep taking his bed while he destroys himself on furniture that hates him. But I don't know how to fix it without making it weird, without him refusing, without both of us stuck in this situation neither of us knows how to navigate.
Tomorrow, I think. Tomorrow I'll figure out how to fix this.
I fall asleep to the sound of pages turning and springs that sound like they're dying.
Wednesday morning starts with Finn teaching me how to check tire pressure, which somehow devolves into a philosophical discussion about the nature of air.
