"They also have betting pools about us."
His eyes narrow a fraction. "What?"
"About when we're going to—" I gesture vaguely, can't make myself say it. "Maeve filled me in. Apparently half the town has money riding on our relationship status."
"Ignore them." He's not looking at me now, focused on the socket set in his hands. "They're bored. Small town, not enough happening. They like to create drama where there isn't any."
"Hard to ignore when literally every person I met today mentioned it."
"They don't know anything. Just gossiping." He shifts again, uncomfortable. "I'm sorry. Should've warned you."
"It's fine. They're not mean about it. Just... invested. In a deeply unsettling way."
He almost laughs. Just a breath, barely a sound, but I catch it.
"You did good today," he says after a moment. "Getting out. Meeting people. They liked you."
"How do you know?"
"Mrs. Castellano called the shop." He's still not looking at me, still focused on the tools in his hands like they're fascinating. "Asked if you'd be at Sunny's tomorrow. Said she wanted to talk to you about volunteering at the community center. Said you made an impression."
"By existing?"
"By being you." Matter-of-fact. Simple truth. "You're good with people. They can tell."
My throat tightens. "Well. I'm trying."
"It's not—" He stops. Starts again. "I'm not trying to compliment you. Just stating a fact. You fit here. People see that."
"I don't know if I fit anywhere."
"You fit here." He finally looks at me. Holds my gaze. His eyes are so blue they're almost unnerving, and there's something in them now—certainty, maybe, or conviction. "Stop acting surprised when people treat you like you belong."
The words leave me speechless.
He turns to leave, then pauses in the doorway. Glances back.
“Did you get your package?"
I look down at the package beside me, feeling my cheeks redden. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs. "Figured you needed new ones before the old ones actually killed you."
"Holt—"
But he’s gone before I can say thank you. Before I can say that was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.
He did all of that without saying a word, without asking for thanks, without making it a big deal.
Just: I saw, I fixed it, you're welcome.
I take a deep breath, calm my racing heart, and go back to the chaotic inventory, but I'm smiling, thinking about boots and sundresses and the way he looked at me like I was the sun and he'd been in the dark too long.
By the time Finn calls it a day around five, I've cataloged half the back room and found six missing tools he thought were gone forever. I'm dusty and sweaty and my ass hurts from sitting on concrete, but I'm accomplished. Useful.
I head upstairs to clean up, thinking about the day. About Maeve and her certainty that I belong here. About every person who knew my name, who treated me like I was already one of them. About boots and betting pools and the way Holt's eyes tracked up my body like he was memorizing every detail.
I shower—the water pressure is terrible but at least it's cold—and change into clean clothes. Tank top and shorts because it's still too hot for anything else. When I emerge, Holt's on the couch with his book, same as every night.
