"Holt—"
"Not yet." His voice is firm now. Final. "I need you to be sure. And I need to be—I need to be better than I am right now."
"You're already—"
"Scout." He cuts me off gently but there's no room for argument in his voice. "Not yet."
I stare at him, frustration and affection and understanding all tangled up. He's wrong. He's so wrong about himself, about what he's worth, about what I want. But he's also immovable on this, and I can see it in every line of his body.
"Okay," I say finally, because what else can I say? I can't force him to see himself the way I see him. "But for the record? You're wrong. About all of it."
"Maybe." He almost smiles. "But I'm not changing my mind."
"Stubborn."
"Yeah."
The pause stretches, both of us choosing restraint when we could choose something else. Then he reaches for the prosthetic and I help him get it back on, hands steadier than his this time. Each strap adjusted the way he showed me, checking tension, making sure nothing's too tight or loose.
"Thank you," he says when I'm done.
"For what?"
"Finding me."
Chapter 8
Finn's got one boot braced against the workbench, both hands wrapped around his coffee mug, pulling like he's trying to remove Excalibur from stone.
The mug doesn't budge. Neither does the torque wrench I glued it to last night.
"You beautiful monster," he mutters, still pulling. "You tiny, evil, beautiful monster."
"Not me," I say, which is a lie. Definitely me. I spent twenty minutes last night with a bottle of industrial adhesive and zero regrets.
Finn stops mid-yank to glare at me. "Your footprints are in the oil spill by the lift. Size five. Who else wears toddler shoes?"
"They're six and a half, and also you can't prove anything."
"I can prove you're about to die." But he's grinning when he says it, already plotting revenge in that brain of his.
Holt emerges from under the truck he's working on, sliding out on the creeper smooth and unhurried. There's grease up to his elbows and a smudge across his jaw that I absolutely donot want to lick off. He glances at Finn, still wrestling the mug, then at me trying very hard to look innocent.
"She glued it?" he asks Finn.
"Yep."
"How long you been pulling?"
"Ten minutes."
His mouth softens just slightly at the edges. "Might be easier to just buy a new mug."
"It's the principle," Finn says, giving one more dramatic yank before surrendering. He leaves the mug-wrench hybrid standing upright on the bench like some kind of modern art installation. "Fine. You win this round, Adler. But I'm coming for you."
"Looking forward to it, Weller."
Holt wipes his hands on a shop rag, smearing more grease than he removes. "I need parts from Mesa. Bearings and seals for the transmission. Be about two hours with the drive."
