Chapter 2 #4
"That's the nicest thing you've ever called me. I'm touched. Truly."
I file the invoice in the green folder. Holt nods once—just once, barely a movement—and goes back to work. Finn mouths "thank you" at me and winks.
By noon I've made progress. The desk looks almost functional. I've answered six more calls without saying anything inappropriate. I've only dropped things twice. This counts as a successful morning.
My stomach growls loud enough that Finn hears it from across the garage.
"Someone's hungry."
"Yeah." I forgot to pack lunch. Didn't even think about it.
"I should run to Sunny's, grab something for everyone.
What do you want? Sandwiches? Soup? I think Sunny has really good pie, or at least that's what Abe and Nadine were saying, so I could grab pie, or maybe just coffee, do you need coffee? I could do a coffee run—"
"You don't have to do that," Finn says gently.
"I want to! It's my first day. I should do something nice. Make a good impression. Show that I'm useful and not just the disaster who kicked over a bucket of bolts—wait that hasn't happened yet. Forget I said that. Pretend you didn't hear that—"
Holt walks past, doesn't break stride, doesn't look at me. "Back fridge. Help yourself."
I blink. Walk to the back fridge, pull it open. Beer. Electrolyte drinks in colors that don't exist in nature. Something questionable in Tupperware that I'm not touching. And—
A brown paper bag with my name on it.
Written in neat, precise handwriting. Scout. Just my name, letters formed careful and clear like someone took their time.
I stare at it. My hands are shaking—actually shaking, trembling at the edges—and I have to set the bag down on the counter just to steady myself because I don't trust my grip.
Don't trust my hands. Don't trust anything right now because my throat's gone tight and my eyes are burning and I'm about to cry over a lunch I didn't ask for.
"Holt made you lunch," Finn says, appearing beside me with a grin that says he knows exactly what this means.
My head snaps toward Holt across the garage. He's very deliberately not looking at me, focused on the engine in front of him like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.
"You didn't have to do that." My voice comes out smaller than I want. Quieter. Shaking at the edges. "I could've—I would've figured something out, I always figure something out, you didn't have to—"
"You didn't have food." He still won't look at me. His hands keep working, methodical and steady and sure. "Figured you wouldn't think to pack any."
He's right. I didn't think. Didn't plan. Showed up to my first day without lunch like an idiot.
I open the bag and my fingers fumble with the fold.
Sandwich. Turkey and cheese, lettuce still crisp and cold, tomato sliced thin and even, mustard but not too much.
Apple—red and perfect, the kind that probably cost more than the cheap green ones.
Bag of chips. A napkin folded with the same care as everything else he does, corners meeting precise.
Nobody's made me lunch since—I can't even remember. Middle school? My mom, before everything got complicated and cold? Maybe nobody's ever just made me food because they thought I might need it. Because they were paying attention. Because they cared.
My throat closes completely. I have to swallow once, twice, three times before I can speak, and even then my voice shakes.
My eyes burn and I blink hard, willing myself not to cry over a sandwich in a brown paper bag in the middle of an auto shop on my first day.
That would be insane. That would be the kind of emotional disaster that gets people fired. "Thank you."
He just nods. Doesn't say anything else. Goes back to work like this isn't huge, like this isn't everything, like he didn't just show me more care in a paper bag lunch than most people show in years.
But it is huge. It's enormous. Because this isn't just food.
This is someone waking up on furniture that's destroying his spine and still thinking to make sure I had something to eat.
This is someone who barely knows me noticing I forgot lunch and fixing it before I even realized it was a problem.
This is care made physical, attention turned into turkey and cheese and a napkin folded just right.
I sit at the desk. Take the sandwich out with hands that are still shaking slightly.
The first bite hits different—like I can taste the thought he put into this, the actual care, and it makes my chest ache.
This isn't just throwing food in a bag. This is precise.
Intentional. Someone paying attention to details like "she probably likes vegetables" and "not too much mustard" and "an apple, the good kind. "
I'm halfway through when I realize I'm smiling—really smiling, the kind that makes my face hurt—and Finn catches me.
"He's a good guy," he says quietly, voice lower than usual. Serious. "Doesn't show it the way most people do. Doesn't talk about feelings or make big gestures or say the things people expect. But he pays attention. Sees things. Takes care of people without making it a thing. That's just who he is."
"Yeah." I look across the garage to where Holt's working, his hands sure and steady, grease-stained and scarred and perfect, and something warm settles deeper in my chest. Roots itself. "I'm starting to notice that."
"Good." Finn straightens up, grin back in place. "Because if you hurt him, I'll hide your body in the desert where nobody'll ever find it. Just so we're clear."
"Did you just threaten me?"
"Yep."
"While smiling?"
"I contain multitudes. I'm complex. Layered, even."
"That's deeply unsettling."
"Thanks. I've been practicing. You should see my knife collection."
"You don't have a knife collection."
"You don't know that. I could be a knife guy. I could have a whole knife situation happening."
"Do you?"
"No. But I could start. For you. For the aesthetic."
I'm laughing now, and across the garage Holt's shoulders relax slightly. Just slightly. But I notice.
The afternoon is when my nervous energy transforms into physical comedy. I'm filing invoices when I drop the entire stack—just completely lose my grip—and send them flying everywhere. They scatter across the floor, slide under the desk, drift beneath a car like they're trying to escape.
"Shit," I mutter, dropping to my knees. "Shit, shit, shit."
Finn appears, helping me collect papers. "Most people wait until week two before they redecorate the floor with important documents."
"I'm an overachiever."
"Clearly. Respect."
We're collecting papers—I've crawled half under a car like some kind of feral mechanic—when I stand up too fast. My knee catches the desk edge hard, pain shoots up my leg sharp and bright, and I stumble backward. Right into a bucket of bolts.
It tips. Time slows. I watch it happen in slow motion, powerless to stop it. Then it hits the floor.
Hundreds of tiny metal pieces scatter in every direction, rolling and bouncing and multiplying like they're reproducing, a wave of chaos that sounds like the end of the world.
They ping off equipment, disappear into corners, slide under cars.
The noise echoes through the garage, metal on concrete amplified by high ceilings and metal walls—a symphony of mockery that seems to go on forever, each ping a reminder of exactly how badly I just screwed up.
Finn dives out of the way, presses himself against the truck. "Incoming!"
I stand there in the epicenter, surrounded by automotive carnage, and think: this is it. This is how I get fired. Death by bolts.
"I swear I'm not usually this chaotic," I say to no one in particular.
"I don't believe you," Finn says, already grinning as he starts picking them up. "This feels very on-brand."
"That's offensive."
"But accurate."
"Fair."
We're on our hands and knees—they're everywhere, multiplying, I'm convinced there are more now than when we started—when I stand again.
I'm being careful this time, extra careful, watching my feet and my surroundings and making sure I don't hit anything.
Except I don't see the air hose stretched across the floor.
My foot catches it. I trip, arms windmilling wildly, and catch myself on the counter. Which would be fine, would be a recovery, would be me salvaging this disaster. Except my elbow clips a coffee mug sitting too close to the edge and sends it flying.
I watch it arc through the air in slow motion, tumbling end over end, and I'm calculating the cost of replacing it, wondering if I can claim it as a work expense, when—
Holt catches it.
Without even glancing up. Doesn't break stride, doesn't shift focus, doesn't look away from the engine he's working on. Just reaches out with one grease-stained hand and plucks it from the air like he's done this a thousand times.
He sets it down carefully on his workbench. Goes back to what he was doing. Says nothing.
I stare at him. At his complete lack of reaction. At the way he just—caught that. Without looking. "How did you—"
"You're loud when you trip."
"I didn't even—you weren't looking—"
"Heard you." He still hasn't turned around. "You gasped. Foot scraped. Caught yourself. Elbow hit the mug." A pause. "Heard all of it."
"You heard all that? While working?"
"I'm paying attention."
The words hit different than they should. Land heavier. He's paying attention. To me. To where I am, what I'm doing, the sounds I make when I trip. He's been tracking me all morning. Listening. Aware of every movement. Ready to catch things before they break.
Finn's shoulders shake with silent laughter, hand pressed over his mouth, face turning red from the effort of not making noise.
I want to be embarrassed. I should be mortified. But I'm too impressed, and something warm unfurls in my chest—sharp and sudden, like sunlight breaking through clouds—at the way he said "I'm paying attention."