Chapter 3
I'm elbow-deep in the filing cabinet from hell when Finn's voice cuts through the garage.
"Gremlin! You're gonna want to see this."
"Busy," I call back, not looking up. The middle drawer's stuck again—my nemesis, my white whale, the bane of my organizational existence.
I've got one hand braced against the frame, the other yanking the handle, and I'm pretty sure I'm about to dislocate something.
"This drawer and I are having a moment. A very personal, very violent moment. "
"It's about your coffee situation."
That gets my attention. I abandon the drawer—it can win this round—and look over.
Finn's grinning at me from across the shop, holding something behind his back.
It's Tuesday morning, barely eight, and the heat's already climbing toward unbearable.
My tank top's stuck to my back. My hair's escaping its ponytail in approximately seventeen different directions.
I've been here an hour and already feel like I've been through a war.
"My coffee situation?" I walk over, suspicious. "What's wrong with my coffee situation?"
"Nothing. That's the problem." He produces a bottle from behind his back with a flourish.
Caramel creamer. The good kind. The expensive kind I buy at the gas station when I'm feeling reckless with my nonexistent budget.
Brand new. Unopened. "Someone noticed you've been dumping half the sugar container into your coffee every morning and decided to intervene. "
I stare at the bottle. At Finn's knowing grin. At Holt across the garage, very deliberately not looking at either of us, focused on the transmission he's rebuilding. "Who—"
"Take a wild guess."
"Finn, did you—"
"Wasn't me." He's clearly enjoying this. "Our fearless leader went to the store last night. Specifically for this. Came back, put it in the fridge, said absolutely nothing about it."
My throat goes tight. "He went to the store."
"Yep."
"For creamer."
"For you."
"Because I put too much sugar in my coffee."
"Because he's paying attention." Finn hands me the bottle. "You gonna stand there looking shocked or are you gonna actually use it?"
I grab the bottle and walk to the mini fridge, hyperaware of Holt still not looking at me.
My hands shake slightly as I pour coffee—the shop pot's already going because Finn's convinced he'll die without constant caffeine access—and add the creamer.
A generous amount. Maybe too much. I don't care. I take a sip and—
It's perfect. Sweet and smooth and exactly what I didn't know I needed. I close my eyes and make a sound that's probably too close to inappropriate for eight in the morning but I can't help it.
"Jesus, Scout." Finn's laughing. "You're gonna kill him."
I open my eyes. Across the garage, Holt's gone completely still. Wrench in hand, shoulders tense, not moving. Not breathing, maybe.
My face goes hot. "I was just—it's good coffee—"
"It's great coffee, apparently." Finn's grin is wicked. "Holt, you okay over there? You look like you're having a stroke."
Holt sets down the wrench not looking at either of us. "Get back to work."
"We are working. We're appreciating your thoughtful gesture. Scout, make the sound again—"
"I'm going to murder you," I say.
"Promises, promises." But Finn's moving back to his truck, still grinning. "Enjoy your fancy coffee, Gremlin."
I stand there with my mug, face burning, and catch Holt's eyes for just a second. There's something in his expression—heat, maybe, or awareness, or frustration that I'm affecting him this much over coffee creamer. Then he looks away.
I retreat to my desk before I can make this weirder.
The morning flows into the kind of rhythm I'm starting to recognize—phones ringing, customers coming and going, invoices getting filed while Finn provides running commentary on everything.
Mrs. Jareltson drops off her car for an oil change and asks if I'm "settling in okay" with a look that suggests the entire town knows where I'm living.
Mr. Rafe needs new brake pads and spends ten minutes telling me about his daughter's wedding.
I'm learning that customer service here is fifty percent car repair and fifty percent therapy session.
Around ten, I realize I actually want to understand what they're doing. Not just file the invoices, but know what the words mean. What a "coolant system flush" actually involves. Why brake pads matter. How any of this works.
I grab an invoice—coolant system repair—and walk over to where Holt's working. He's bent over an engine, arms covered in grease up to his elbows, that tank top doing absolutely nothing to hide the way his shoulders move when he works.
Focus, Scout.
Educational purposes only.
"Hey," I say. "Quick question."
He glances up. One eyebrow raises—his version of "I'm listening."
"Coolant system." I hold up the invoice. "Finn said yesterday it's like anger management for cars, which I'm pretty sure is nonsense, but now I'm curious. What does it actually do?"
He straightens up, wiping his hands on a rag that's probably making them dirtier. "Keeps the engine from overheating. Coolant circulates through the engine block, absorbs heat, runs through the radiator where it cools down, then cycles back."
"So it's basically—what, the car's hydration system? Keeps everything from catching fire?"
"Oversimplified, but yeah." He's watching me with something that might be interest. Not just answering to be polite, but engaged. "That's the core function."
"And if it fails?"
"Engine overheats. Could warp the cylinder head, blow the head gasket." He uses his hands to demonstrate. "Expensive fix. Usually means someone ignored maintenance or there's a leak that wasn't caught early."
I'm leaning against his workbench now, genuinely fascinated. The heat's making his hair damp, and there's a streak of grease on his jaw he hasn't noticed. "How do you know it's failing before it's catastrophically too late?"
"Temperature gauge spikes—first sign. Coolant pooling under the car—usually green or orange, depending on type. Steam from under the hood."
"So you can catch it early if you're paying attention."
"Most people don't pay attention." He almost-smiles. "They ignore the warning signs until the car won't start and then they're surprised it's expensive."
"That feels like a metaphor for something."
"Probably." He picks up a socket wrench. "You ask a lot of questions."
"Is that a problem?"
"No." He meets my eyes. "Most people don't bother learning. Just want their car fixed."
"I'm not most people."
"No. You're not."
The moment stretches and I should probably move, should go back to my desk, but I don't want to. I want to stay here in this bubble where he's looking at me like I matter, like my questions matter, like—
A small metal part rolls across the floor, disappearing under Holt's workbench. He sets down his wrench and crouches to retrieve it. There's a sound—mechanical, distinct, a solid CLICK as he moves—and I almost miss it under the general noise of the shop.
But Finn doesn't miss it. He looks over from where he's working, grinning. "Your leg need a new bolt or something?"
I blink. "What?"
Holt straightens up, the metal part in his hand, and both he and Finn look at me. There's a beat where they realize—I have no idea what Finn's talking about. I'm confused, looking between them like they're speaking a language I don't understand.
Holt lifts his right pant leg without fanfare, without hesitation, just pulls the fabric up to reveal carbon fiber and metal where his leg should be. A prosthetic from above the knee down, sleek and functional and completely matter-of-fact.
"Oh," I say. Process. "You have a prosthetic."
"Yeah." He drops the pant leg, tosses the part to Finn in one smooth motion like absolutely nothing just happened, like he didn't just reveal something most people would consider significant.
"Cool. Okay." I go back to my invoice, brain already moving past it because what else is there to say? He has a prosthetic leg. And? That changes nothing about who he is or how he works or anything that actually matters.
Finn's grinning at me now, something delighted in his expression. "That was the most chill response ever."
"What was I supposed to do, freak out?"
"Most people do."
"Well, we have already established I'm not like most people." I'm already focused on the invoice again, filing it in the correct folder. "Besides, it's not like it's my business. He's still fixing cars and being all competent and broody and whatever. The leg doesn't change any of that."
Finn looks at Holt. Holt's watching me with something in his eyes I can't quite read—surprise maybe, or relief, or gratitude that I didn't make it weird. That I just... accepted it and moved on.
"Scout!" Finn's voice breaks the moment. "Phone!"
I grab the invoice and retreat. But when I glance back, Holt's still watching me. Just for a second before he returns to work.
Later, when I'm filing in the back office, I hear Finn's voice, quiet and serious in a way he rarely gets.
"I like her."
"Yeah." Holt's voice, just as quiet. "Me too."
Progress. I'm calling that progress.
The afternoon brings chaos in the form of a tow truck and my apparently-suicidal car.
Holt's arranged to have it towed to the shop so he can actually look at it instead of just diagnosing from a distance.
I watch them wheel it into the bay and my stomach drops because seeing it here, in pieces, surrounded by tools and competent people who know what they're doing, makes the whole situation feel more real.
More permanent. I can't just ignore it anymore.
"Don't panic," Finn says, appearing at my shoulder. "It's fixable."
"How do you know?"
"Because Holt said it's fixable, and Holt doesn't lie about cars." He bumps my shoulder. "He'll figure it out. Might take a minute, but he'll get you running again."
"I can't afford—"