Thursday morning, the shop is chaos.
Multiple cars, phones ringing constantly, Finn's music fighting a losing battle against power tools and customer voices and the general noise of a busy garage. I'm in my element though—filing invoices, answering phones, directing customers, keeping everything organized while controlled chaos swirls around me. This should stress me out. Should make my anxiety spike. But instead I'm humming along to a song I don't know the words to, multitasking like my life depends on it.
I'm reaching for another invoice when I hear it.
The wrench hits the concrete.
Metallic. Sharp. Echoing off every surface, amplified by high ceilings and metal walls. The sound reverberates through the space, bouncing back and forth, and my body reacts before my brain catches up.
Everything stops.
My breath catches halfway—stuck, trapped, refusing to move. My hands lock on the desk, knuckles going white, fingers digging into wood hard enough to hurt. Cold sweat breaks out across my back, down my spine, prickling along my arms. The garage sounds start fading—Finn's music, the hum ofequipment, voices saying things I can't process—going tiny and distant like I'm underwater.
Drowning.
I’m drowning.
My vision narrows to just the wood grain under my white-knuckled hands, everything else going dark and blurry around the edges.
Loud sounds.
Metallic.
The kind that come before pain.
Before violence.
Before everything goes wrong and you can't stop it, can't fix it, can't do anything except freeze and wait for it to be over.
Don't move don't breathe don't make a sound because drawing attention gets you hurt more, gets you—
My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I can feel it in my throat, taste it. The world's shrinking, closing in, and I can't breathe can't think can't move can't—
"Hey." Finn's voice, quiet. Careful. "Scout?"
I can't answer.
Can't look at him.
My throat's closed, lungs not working right, and I'm trying to remember how to breathe but the panic's too big, too much, swallowing everything.
Footsteps.
Heavy.
Steady.
Boots on concrete.
Each step loud enough to track through the static filling my head. Getting closer but not rushing, not running, just measured and deliberate and familiar.
Then he's there.
Holt.
Standing beside my desk, close enough that I can sense him without looking up. He's not touching me. Not crowding my space. Not trying to force me to look at him or speak or perform being okay. Just... present. Solid. Real.
"You're good." His voice is low, steady, cutting through the panic. "Just a dropped tool. That's all. Metal on concrete. Nothing else."
