"Finn."
"No idea what you're talking about," he says, voice dripping with fake innocence.
I look over at Holt. He's bent over an engine, completely focused on his work, but his shoulders are shaking. Just slightly. The tiniest movement that most people wouldn't notice. But I notice. He's laughing. The silent kind that he probably thinks he's hiding but he's not, because his whole back is shaking with suppressed amusement.
They're both in on it. They're messing with me. On purpose. Together.
"I hate both of you," I announce to the garage.
"No you don't," Finn calls back, not even trying to hide his grin now.
Holt's shoulders shake harder. He still doesn't turn around, doesn't say anything, but I can see it—the way his body betrays him, the quiet laughter he won't let out. It's somehow worse than if he'd actually laughed out loud because it's so him—finding this hilarious but keeping it contained, letting Finn do the talking while he just—exists in his amusement.
I'm grinning despite myself. Can't help it. "You're both terrible people."
"Thank you," Finn says brightly.
Holt says nothing but I swear I hear a quiet exhale that sounds suspiciously like a laugh he's trying to swallow.
Finn walks past, grinning. "You doing okay over there?"
"Organizing. Everything's under control."
"You've been here three minutes."
"And I've already found five fire hazards, a biological experiment, and a receipt from a restaurant that closed in 2018. This place is a health code violation waiting to happen."
He laughs. I catch Holt's reflection in the window—he's turned slightly, one hand paused mid-reach for a wrench. Listening. But he stays focused on his work, doesn't look over, doesn't acknowledge me beyond that brief glance when I arrived.
The couch. He's probably exhausted. Sore. In pain. Because of me.
I dive into the desk, sorting and muttering to myself because if I don't talk I'll think too much about furniture torture. "Invoices here. Receipts—trash. Pens that don't work—also trash. Why do we keep broken pens? This is chaos. This is—oh my god, is this a sandwich? How long has this been here? This is archaeology. We're going to find ancient civilizations under this desk."
The phone rings and I nearly jump out of my skin.
I grab it, plaster on my most professional voice. "Good morning! Ward and Weller Auto, where we fix your car and—" I realize mid-sentence I'm about to say "judge your life choices" and pivot hard. "—uh, provide excellent automotive services! How can I help you today?"
Beat of silence. Then a woman's voice, amused: "Is this the new girl?"
"Yes? I mean, yes. This is Scout. How can I help you?" Professional. I'm being so professional right now.
"This is Mrs. Rafferty, dear. Confirming my appointment for tomorrow at two?"
"Let me check—" I scan the disaster, find an appointment book buried under three layers of paper. "Yes! Tuesday at two. You're all set, Mrs. Rafferty."
"Wonderful. Tell Holt I'm bringing cookies."
"I will. What kind?" This feels important. Cookie intel.
"Chocolate chip. His favorite."
"Noted. I'll make sure he knows." I'm smiling now, actually smiling. "Have a great day."
"You sound lovely, dear. Much more interesting than that phone system they had before."
I hang up feeling accomplished, which lasts until Finn's voice comes from under his truck.
"Did you just almost say 'judge your life choices' to a customer?"
