He squeezes my shoulder and doesn't push. Just goes back to work.
The water tastes like nothing. I drink it anyway because if I don't, he'll worry more than he already is.
Holt walks past the desk twice before lunch. Doesn't stop. Doesn't slow. Just moves through like I'm a piece of furniture he's learned to navigate around.
Each time, something in my chest cracks a little more.
Finn shows up at noon with sandwiches from the diner, dropping one in front of me with an exaggerated ceremony. "Turkey club. Extra pickles. Your favorite."
I stare at it.
"You eating today, or are we doing the 'I'm fine' thing again?"
"Just not hungry yet."
"Scout—"
"I'll eat it later."
He sits on the edge of the desk, unwrapping his own sandwich with deliberate slowness. Takes a bite. Chews. Swallows. "You know you can talk to me, right?"
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Right. Nothing. Which is why you look like you haven't slept in days and you're about to cry over a perfectly good sandwich."
My voice cracks. "I'm not going to cry."
Finn reaches out like he's going to touch my arm, and I pull back without thinking. His hand freezes mid-air.
Something crosses his face—concern, maybe. Or pity. I can't look at it.
"Sorry," I say quickly. "I just—I need to work. That's all."
He pulls his hand back slowly. Studies me for a long moment. "Okay. But the sandwich stays. And if you don't eat it by the end of the day, I'm staging an intervention."
"Deal."
He leaves. The sandwich sits there mocking me. I can't imagine eating it. Can't imagine anything except the sound of Holt's truck this morning and the way he wouldn't look at me.
The afternoon is worse.
A customer comes in at two to pick up his truck—routine brake job, should be easy. I pull up his invoice and try to focus on the numbers. They swim on the screen.
"That'll be two-eighty-seven fifty," I say, except that's wrong. That's not even close to right.
"You sure?" The guy's squinting at the paper. "Thought you said three hundred on the phone."
"Right. Sorry." I backspace, retype. The numbers still don't make sense. "Three hundred. Three-oh-seven. No, wait—"
My elbow hits the pen cup.
Everything happens slow and fast at once.
The cup tips. Rolls. Pens scatter across the desk in a wave of plastic and ink, some clattering to the floor, others spinning in circles on the wood. One rolls right off the edge and I watch it fall, watch it hit concrete and bounce.
"Shit." I drop to my knees, hands scrambling. "Sorry, I'm sorry, just give me a second—"
The concrete's cold under my knees. My fingers slip on smooth plastic. I can't grab them fast enough. Can't hold anything. The pens keep rolling away from me and my hands won't work right and I can't—
