The words register slowly, fighting through layers of panic and fear and trauma that lives in my body whether I want it to or not.
Just a dropped tool.
Not danger.
Not threat.
Not violence incoming.
Just Finn being clumsy, just an accident, just noise that can't actually hurt me.
Just noise.
My lungs unlock slightly. I manage half a breath—shaky, catching on something in my chest—and then another. My hands are still locked on the desk but I can feel them now, feel the ache spreading up my wrists.
"Breathe," Holt says. Not a command. A reminder. An anchor. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. You know how to do this."
I do.
I try. In through my nose—shakier than I want, hitching halfway—and out through my mouth. The panic starts receding, slow and reluctant, leaving me shaky and raw and so fucking tired.
"Yeah." My voice comes out thin. Barely there. "Sorry. I'm fine."
"Didn't ask if you were fine."
The words hit different than they should. Not dismissive. Not annoyed. Just... factual. Matter-of-fact. He's not asking me to perform okay, not demanding I prove I'm functional. He's just letting me know he's here. That I don't have to pretend.
I try to breathe again. In through my nose—easier this time. Out through my mouth. My chest loosens slightly. My fingers slowly uncurl from the desk, joints protesting.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He nods once. Doesn't say anything else. Doesn't ask what triggered it, doesn't demand explanations, doesn't look at me like I'm broken or fragile or something that needs fixing. He just stands there for a few more seconds—solid and steady, something I can anchor to. He gives me one more look over and nods, walking away, back to whatever thing he was fixing before I lost my shit.
He continues working like nothing happened.
Except everything happened.
Finn gives me a gentle smile from across the garage, the kind that says I understand, I've got you, and goes back under the truck he was working on. The music keeps playing. The shop keeps running. Nobody makes it a thing. Nobody stares. Nobody asks if I'm okay or tries to force me to talk about it.
They just... let me be.
But I notice—for the rest of the afternoon, Holt checks on me. Not obviously. Not hovering. Just... periodically, his eyes find me across the garage. Making sure.
Staying aware.
And I notice something else too: when he sets down tools, he does it carefully now. Gently. No more sudden metallic sounds echoing through the space. He's accommodating me without making me feel weak about it, adjusting his entire workflow without making it my fault, protecting me from triggers I didn't even have to explain.
He saw me at my most vulnerable and he didn't ask why.
He just helped.
By closing time, I'm steadier. The panic has faded into that dull exhausted ache that comes after adrenaline burns off, leaving everything feeling heavy and wrung-out. My hands are still a little shaky. My throat still feels tight. But I'm functional. I'm here. I survived a trigger without falling completely apart.
That feels like something.
Finn squeezes my shoulder as he passes—quick, gentle, saying nothing because nothing needs to be said. Holt finishes whatever he was working on, wipes his hands on a rag, and glances at me.
"You coming up?"
