"Yeah. Just finishing this."
He nods, and heads for the stairs.
I finish filing the last invoice with hands that only shake a little, shut down the computer, lock the front door. The walk up the stairs feels longer than usual, my legs heavy. By the time I reach the loft, Holt's already inside, moving around the small space.
But when I walk through the door, I notice something immediately. Finn's workbench—the one visible through the window overlooking the shop floor—has been subtly rearranged. His tools, which he swears he organizes by size from smallest to largest, are still organized by size. Just... in reverse order. Largest to smallest.
I almost miss it. Would have missed it if I hadn't been staring out the window trying to ground myself.
I shake my head laughing as I reach for the door to the loft, turning the handle to go inside.
"Holt."
"Hmm?" Holt doesn't look up from his coffee.
"My wrenches were organized by size."
"Still are."
Finn looks closer at his bench, his expression morphing from confusion to realization to grudging respect. "You're a child."
Holt's mouth curves slightly. But it's there.
"A literal child," Finn continues. "This is the most petty thing you've ever done and I respect it but also I hate you."
"Noted."
"When did you even do this? I was here until six yesterday."
I'm watching this exchange, fascination growing in my chest. They've been pranking each other forever. This isn't new. This is just another day in whatever weird competitive friendship they've built over eight years of working side by side.
"I'm retaliating," Finn announces.
"Looking forward to it."
"It's going to be so good. So petty. You won't even see it coming."
"Sure."
Finn looks at me. "You see this? You see what I deal with?"
"I see a grown man complaining about organized wrenches."
"They're in the WRONG ORDER."
"But they're organized."
"Not the point!"
Holt's shoulders shake—that silent laugh again—and something warm blooms in my chest. They're letting me see this. This thing they do. This history. And I'm part of it now, somehow. Part of their world.
By the time I drag my lifeless legs up the stairs, the warmth has cooled into something quieter, something thatfollows me up and sinks its teeth in. I move through the loft slower than usual, caught on the memory of their laugh. The place feels smaller tonight, the walls closer, and I’m hyperaware of Holt in a way that tightens my throat. He’s in the kitchenette pulling out ramen and vegetables, and I step in beside him without asking because this is what we do now—this domestic dance in four square feet of functional space where we’ve learned how to move around each other without colliding.
"You're already on it," I say, because someone has to fill the silence and it's always going to be me. "Ramen with actual vegetables. Look at us, being all responsible and nutritious. Next thing you know we'll be eating salads and drinking green smoothies and becoming those people."
"It's still barely cooking."
"Says the man who thinks sandwiches count as gourmet."
