"Does it?"
"Yeah." He's genuine when he says it. "Sometimes the best thing you can do is just... be. Work with your hands. Let your brain rest. Exist without a five-year plan."
Something in Scout's face shifts. Opens. "Yeah. Exactly."
And I watch it happen. Watch her recognize something in him, some shared understanding I can't give her because I'm too busy carrying years of guilt and a prosthetic leg and the absolute certainty that I'll fuck this up the same way I fuck everything up.
The afternoon session drags on—more presentations, more certifications—and by the time we're loading certified parts into Finn's truck bed, I'm ready to set something on fire.
"This goes in the back corner," Scout's saying, directing traffic while Grant helps load boxes. "No, the other back corner. Yeah, there."
"You're very particular about organization," Grant says, grinning.
"You have no idea." Finn appears with another box, shirt soaked through with sweat. "She color-coded our tools. Our tools."
"Efficiency," Scout argues.
"Madness," Finn counters, but he's smiling.
Grant laughs, sets down his box, and pulls out his phone. The movement's casual but I see the shift in his shoulders, the way he's suddenly less certain.
"Hey, can I get your number?" He's talking to Scout, but I hear every word from ten feet away where I'm pretending to inspect brake pads. "For shop stuff. Or coffee sometime. If you want."
Scout hesitates. Looks past Grant's shoulder to where I'm very obviously eavesdropping, and I should turn away. Should give her privacy. Should do literally anything except stand here holding a fucking brake pad like my life depends on it.
She looks back at Grant. "Sure."
Everything narrows. The parking lot, the heat, the sound of Finn dropping boxes—all of it compresses down to Scout's voice as she recites her number. The cardboard edges dig into my palms and I'm gripping too hard, crushing it, and I can feel it in my chest. Actual physical pressure, like something's wrapped around my ribs and squeezing. My throat goes tight. There's a ringing in my ears that has nothing to do with the heat.
"I'll text you," Grant says.
"Okay."
"Okay." He shifts the last box into place. "It was really good meeting you, Scout."
"You too."
I set down the brake pad before I destroy it completely. My hands are shaking. I make them stop.
Finn appears at my elbow as Grant heads back inside. "You good?"
"Fine."
"You're about to break that part."
"I'm fine."
"Holt—"
"Let's just go."
We load into the truck in silence. Nobody fights for position this time—same configuration as before, Finn in the middle, Scout at the window.
I start the engine. Pull out onto the highway. Watch the warehouse disappear in the rearview mirror.
Twenty minutes of silence. Nobody even tries this time. Scout's phone buzzes, and she pulls it out. The screen lightsup her face in the growing dusk, and I see it—surprise, then something softer. She types a response. Hits send. The smallest smile touches her mouth.
My knuckles go white on the steering wheel. That pressure in my chest gets worse, spreads to my jaw, makes my teeth ache.
