Chapter 2 #2
He drains his mug, rinses it in the sink, grabs a shirt from the duffel by the couch—the same duffel that should be in the bedroom, that probably held everything he owned before he moved it all out here for me—and pulls it on.
The fabric stretches across his shoulders and I'm definitely not staring at the way it fits. Definitely not.
He heads for the door without looking back. No goodbye. Just the door closing, footsteps echoing down the metal stairs, fading into the hum of the shop below.
I sit there with my coffee, thinking: I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing here. But I'm going to try really hard not to screw it up.
The weekend passes in this weird cohabitation dance where we're both hyperaware of each other and trying to pretend we're not.
Saturday I explore the loft—takes me fifteen minutes because it's not big—and unpack my duffel.
Put my clothes in the dresser he cleared out, which still smells like him.
Hang my two dresses in the closet. Arrange my books on the small shelf.
Make the space mine while trying not to think about how it was his first.
I hear the shop running below all day. The clang of metal, Finn's voice carrying up through the floor, music that's probably older than both of them.
I think about going down but he said to take the weekend.
So I stay up here, reorganizing things that don't need reorganizing, taking a shower in the bathroom that's so small my elbows hit both walls, trying to figure out what my life is now.
Saturday night I make spaghetti. When Holt comes up around sunset, sweaty and streaked with grease, I've got two plates ready. He stops in the doorway. Something changes in his face—goes softer for half a second, surprise mixed with something else—before his walls snap back up.
"You didn't have to do that," he says.
"I made extra. It's stupid to eat alone when we're both here." I hand him a plate and our fingers brush. His hands are rough, scarred, warm, and covered in oil he hasn't washed off yet. "Consider it rent. In pasta form."
He sits. We eat in silence that should be awkward but isn't. The spaghetti's nothing special—jar sauce, overcooked noodles—but he eats all of it.
When I wash dishes, he dries—doesn't ask, doesn't offer, just picks up the towel and starts.
Our elbows bump twice in the cramped space and he doesn't pull away, just shifts slightly to give me room.
That night I lie in bed listening to him settle onto the couch.
The springs protest—loud, sharp, angry metal sounds.
He shifts. The frame creaks like it's being murdered.
He adjusts again and I hear the frustrated exhale when he realizes there's no position that works, no way to make six-foot-three fit comfortably on five feet of furniture designed for someone half his size.
This is my fault. He's in pain because of me.
The guilt sits heavy in my chest and I think: I should offer to switch.
Should insist he take his bed back. Should sleep on that torture device myself since I'm the reason he's suffering.
But I don't know how to offer without making it weird, without him refusing, without both of us stuck in this situation neither of us knows how to navigate.
I fall asleep listening to him shift, thinking: I owe him more than pasta.
Sunday I venture down to the shop. Finn lights up when he sees me like I'm exactly what he's been waiting for.
"Gremlin! You've emerged!"
"Gremlin?" I stop, hands on my hips, trying to look offended even though I'm kind of delighted. "Did you just call me Gremlin?"
"Yep. It fits. You're small, chaotic, and you live in the walls now."
"I'm five-three, which is a perfectly normal height, and I don't live in the walls. I live in the loft. There's a difference. Walls would imply I'm feral. The loft implies I pay rent. Very different situations."
"Details." He grins. "You settling in okay? Holt being his usual ray of sunshine?"
I glance at Holt. He's under a hood, pretending not to listen, but his hands have gone still on whatever he's working on. Completely still. Listening. Definitely listening. "He's been really nice."
"Don't let him hear you say that. He's got a reputation to maintain." Finn stage-whispers, loud enough that everyone can hear, "He's a giant softie. Just don't tell him I told you."
"Finn," Holt says, voice low and flat. "You're supposed to be working."
"I am working. I'm providing emotional support."
"That's not a job."
"Should be. I'd be employee of the month. Every month. They'd name the award after me. The Finn Award for Excellence in Emotional Support and General Awesomeness."
I laugh and catch Holt's mouth twitch—not quite a smile but close enough that I'm counting it as a win. Progress. Finn winks at me.
By Sunday night I've mentally prepared for Monday.
Don't screw this up, I tell myself, lying in bed listening to him shift on that couch for the millionth time.
The springs groan and I wince. You need this job.
You need this place. Be professional. Competent.
The kind of employee who justifies taking someone's bedroom and destroying their spine in the process.
I fall asleep to pages turning and think: tomorrow. Tomorrow I prove I'm worth keeping around.
Monday morning I wake before my alarm because anxiety is an excellent motivator. I stand in front of the mirror giving myself the kind of pep talk that would concern a therapist.
"You can do this. It's just phones and filing.
Basic administrative work. You've survived worse.
You ran away from a wedding three days before it happened.
You drove across three states with forty dollars and a gas tank running on prayers.
You broke down crying in front of a stranger who gave you his bedroom and hasn't complained once about sleeping on torture furniture.
This? This is nothing. Phones. Filing. Basic human interaction.
Eight hours of pretending to be functional.
You've got this. You're going to be amazing.
Or at least mediocre. Mediocre is fine. Mediocre gets you through the day without getting fired. Aim for mediocre."
The mirror doesn't look convinced, but I put on my game face—cut-offs, tank top, hair up in a knot because there's no way I'm leaving it down in this heat. The temperature's already climbing and it's barely six-thirty.
I hear Holt moving in the living area. The familiar protest of springs—louder this morning, angrier—followed by footsteps and the coffee pot starting. He's been awake for a while. I heard him get up around five, heard the couch groan in relief when he finally left it alone.
Every morning he wakes up in pain while I sleep in his bed. Every. Single. Morning.
The guilt is becoming impossible to ignore.
I emerge to find the living area empty, coffee made, his duffel by the door packed with what I assume are clean work clothes.
He's downstairs already. I pour coffee, add enough sugar to make it taste like dessert, check the time—6:55.
Five minutes early. Good. Professional people arrive early. I can be professional.
I drain the mug, rinse it because leaving dishes feels wrong, and head down. My stomach's doing acrobatics but I ignore it. First day. Don't screw this up. Be normal. Be competent. Be the kind of person who deserves a job and a room and a second chance.
The shop's already humming when I push through the door. Metal on metal, the hum of equipment, Finn's music playing something twangy. Finn's by the truck, and he sees me first. His face splits into a grin that makes me feel instantly better.
"Morning, Gremlin! Ready to witness the glamorous world of carburetor replacement?"
"Yes. Absolutely ready." The words trip over each other, tumbling out too fast. "Where do I start?
What do I do first? Should I turn on the computer?
Is there a computer? Do you have a system?
I'm good with systems. I once organized my entire apartment by color and frequency of use, which was excessive but effective, so really I can handle whatever organizational nightmare you're about to show me—"
"Breathe, Scout."
I stop. Force a breath. Finn's still grinning, completely unbothered by my verbal disaster.
"Sorry. Nervous."
"Don't be. It's just us." He gestures around. "And we're idiots. You'll be fine."
From across the garage, Holt straightens up from where he's been bent over an engine. His eyes meet mine—brief, assessing, blue enough to be distracting—and he nods once. Not a greeting. Acknowledgment of my existence.
It stings a little, which is stupid. He's working. This is professional. I need to be professional. Stop expecting warmth from someone who communicates in nods and silence.
"Front desk," Finn says. "Your domain. May god have mercy on your soul."
I'm heading that direction when something on the wall catches my eye—a whiteboard, kind of beat-up, with two columns written in permanent marker at the top.
HOLT on the left. FINN on the right. Below each name, tally marks.
Lots of them. Like, years worth of tally marks covering every inch of available space.
"What's this?" I point at it, genuinely curious.
Finn lights up like I've just asked his favorite question. "Official scorecard."
"For what?"
"Everything," Holt says from across the garage, not looking up from whatever he's elbow-deep in.
I look between them. "Everything?"
"Everything," Finn confirms, grinning. "Who can change oil faster. Who fixed the Morrison truck with fewer curse words. Who correctly predicted it would rain last Tuesday. Who can throw a wrench into that bucket from ten feet. Literally everything."
"And you keep score?"
"Have been for six years."
"Six years?"
"Commitment," Finn says proudly. "Dedication to the craft of competition."
I study the tally marks, trying to count. "Finn, it looks like you're winning."