"Next week won't work. I need it done tomorrow."
From the garage, I hear Finn's voice, quiet enough that the customer can't hear. "Bet he asks for a discount."
Holt's response is just as quiet. "Bet he name-drops someone 'important.'"
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
The customer leans against my desk. "You know, I'm friends with the mayor, and I really think you could make an exception. It's not that difficult to squeeze one more car in, is it?"
Holt's shoulders shake slightly. Just barely. But I notice.
"Let me check with Holt," I say, already knowing what the answer will be. "One moment."
After I relay the situation and Holt politely but firmly tells the customer we can't accommodate rush work without advancenotice—and no, being friends with the mayor doesn't change shop policy—the guy leaves in a huff.
The second the door closes, Finn walks straight to the whiteboard. Adds a tally mark under Holt's column with dramatic flair.
"Lucky guess," he says.
Holt shrugs. "Pattern recognition."
I'm watching this, fascinated. "Do you two bet on EVERYTHING?"
They both turn to look at me, speak in perfect unison. "Yes."
"Everything?"
"Everything," Finn confirms. "Weather. Customer behavior. How many times the phone will ring before lunch. Whether Mrs. Lane will bring cookies. What color car will pull up next. Literally everything."
"That's insane."
"That's entertainment," Finn corrects. "We've been doing this for years. It's tradition. It's sacred. It's the only thing keeping us from murdering each other out of boredom."
"I'm not bored," Holt says.
"You're always bored. You just hide it better than I do."
Later that afternoon, a bolt rolls off the workbench and disappears under the metal shelving unit. The kind that requires getting on your hands and knees to retrieve.
"I'll get it," Finn says, already moving.
"I got it," Holt says at the same time.
Finn pauses. Glances at Holt's right leg—the prosthetic hidden under his jeans. "You sure? Might be hard with—"
Holt gives him a look. The kind of look that could strip paint. Silence stretching between them, weighted with years of friendship and unspoken understanding.
"—with your terrible personality weighing you down," Finn finishes smoothly. "Was gonna say personality. Obviously. What else would I mean?"
Holt crouches down—easy, smooth, no hesitation—and retrieves the bolt. His prosthetic doesn't slow him down, doesn't make it difficult. He's done this a thousand times. He straightens up and throws the bolt directly at Finn's head.
Finn catches it, grinning. "Love you too, buddy."
"Get back to work."
"Sir, yes sir."
I'm watching this exchange from my desk, learning their language. The jokes are affection. The insults are care. The silence between them is trust so deep it doesn't need words.
