"It's just air," I say, watching him demonstrate on someone's truck. "Why does it matter?"
"Just air? JUST AIR?" He looks at me like I've personally offended him. "Scout. Air pressure is the difference between a smooth ride and careening off the road into a fiery death. Air pressure is life. Air pressure is everything."
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being accurate."
Holt walks past, coffee in hand. "You're being Finn."
"Same thing."
"Not a compliment."
"I'm taking it as one anyway." Finn grins at me. "Okay, Gremlin. Your turn. Show me what you learned."
I crouch down by the tire, gauge in hand, and immediately realize I've forgotten everything he just said. "Um. I put the thing on the... thing?"
"Eloquent."
"The technical term is escaping me."
"There is no technical term. It's literally 'put the gauge on the valve stem.'" He's trying not to laugh. "Come on. You've got this."
I press the gauge against the valve stem and it hisses at me. Air escapes. I panic and pull away. "I broke it! I broke the tire! How do you break a tire—"
"You didn't break it." Holt's crouched beside me now—when did he get here?—and his voice is patient. Calm. "Try again. Firm pressure. Straight on."
He guides my hand back to the valve stem, his fingers warm against mine, and suddenly I'm very aware of how close he is. How he smells like coffee and motor oil and something clean underneath. How his voice drops when he's teaching, goes quieter, focused entirely on making sure I understand.
I press the gauge on properly this time and it clicks. Numbers appear.
"Thirty-two PSI," I read.
"Good." He's still close enough that I can feel his breath against my temple. "That's perfect pressure. See? You didn't break anything."
"Yet," I mutter. "The day's young."
His mouth curves slightly and then he's standing, putting distance between us, going back to whatever he was doing. I'm left crouched by a tire with a gauge in my hand and my heart doing complicated things in my chest.
Finn's grinning at me. "You're learning."
"I nearly broke a tire."
"But you didn't. Growth."
"Your standards are terrifyingly low."
"I contain multitudes."
The afternoon brings Mrs. Castellano with cookies again—chocolate chip this time, still warm from the oven. She sets them on my desk and looks at me with those knowing eyes that make me think she sees way more than I'm comfortable with.
"How are you settling in, dear?"
"Good. Great. It's—I like it here." I gesture vaguely at the shop, the desk, the organized files that still make Finn grumble. "Everyone's been really nice."
"Holt treating you well?"
"Yeah. He's—" I don't know how to finish that sentence. How do I explain that he's the kindest person I've ever met while barely speaking, that he shows care through actions instead of words, that he bought me coffee creamer and is fixing my car for free and gave me his bedroom without asking for anything in return? "He's great. They both are."
