"What did you do?"
"Handed her the phone," Holt says. "Told her the repair would be free."
"He didn't tell her it was free because there was nothing to repair," Finn adds. "Just let her think we'd fixed some mysterious problem. She tells everyone we're miracle workers now. Brings us cupcakes every now and then."
"That's amazing." I'm wiping my eyes, still laughing. "That's the best thing I've ever heard."
"We have more," Finn says, clearly enjoying this. "Scout, did you know Holt once set himself on fire?"
Holt goes still. "I did not set myself on fire."
"There were flames. Actual flames. I saw them with my own eyes."
"It was smoking."
"FLAMES, Holt. You were on fire."
I'm watching this back and forth, delighted. "How does someone accidentally catch themselves on fire?"
"Welding," Holt says flatly, like that explains everything.
"Welding while wearing a cotton shirt that basically said 'please ignite me,'" Finn corrects. "Spark caught it and you just kept working like you weren't actively becoming a human torch."
"I noticed."
"You noticed after I screamed 'YOU'RE ON FIRE' loud enough that two customers came running into the bay thinking there was an emergency."
"I handled it."
"You patted yourself down like you were brushing off dust. Very casual. Very unbothered." Finn shakes his head. "Meanwhile I'm having a full cardiac event thinking I'm about to watch my best friend spontaneously combust."
"I didn't combust." Holt takes a sip of his beer. "Still here."
"Barely." Finn looks at me. "Scout, this is what I deal with. This is my life. Preventing Holt from accidentally killing himself through sheer stubbornness and questionable safety practices."
"Sounds exhausting," I say.
"It is. I deserve recognition. A medal. Maybe a parade."
"Coyote Bend doesn't have parades," Holt says.
"Then they should start. For me. For my service."
"What service?"
"Friendship. Loyalty. Keeping you alive against your will." Finn's full smile is back. "Also I make excellent coffee."
"Your coffee is terrible," Holt says, serious as a heart attack.
"My coffee is beloved by me and that's all that matters."
"That's not how quality works."
"Says you."
I'm laughing again, watching them bicker. It's not mean. It's not even really arguing. It's just how they communicate—affection disguised as insults, care wrapped in mockery.
"Okay, okay," I say when I can breathe again. "What's the weirdest customer you've ever had? Because if Mrs. Patterson isn't number one, I need to hear what is."
