Chapter 3 #2
"One problem at a time, Gremlin." Not dismissive, just practical. "Let him diagnose it first. Then we'll worry about money."
Holt's already got the hood up, bent over the engine with focus he gets when he's working—the kind of concentration that blocks out everything else. I should go back to my desk. Let him work. Except I can't seem to move.
He straightens up after a few minutes. "Your radiator's shot. Probably been leaking for a while."
"How bad?"
"Needs replacing. Plus some hoses. Thermostat's questionable." He's already making a list in his head, I can tell. "I can order the parts. Do the work myself."
"How much?"
"Parts'll run you around three hundred. Labor's free."
I blink. "Free?"
"You work here." He says it like it's obvious. Simple math. "Consider it part of your benefits package."
"Holt, I can't—"
"You can." Flat. Final. "I'm not charging you labor for work I can do in an afternoon."
"That's not fair to you—"
"Scout." He looks at me now, something gentler in his eyes. "Let me fix your car. Please."
The please does it. Undoes something in my chest. He's not demanding, not insisting—asking. Giving me the choice. Trusting me to accept help.
"Okay," I whisper. "Thank you."
He nods once and goes back to the engine, but the tension in his shoulders has eased. Like my acceptance mattered. Like he was worried I'd refuse.
I file this moment away under "things that make my chest hurt in ways I don't understand yet" and go back to my desk before I do something stupid like cry over car repair.
Around lunchtime, I'm deep in paperwork when Finn's voice cuts through the garage.
"Bet you can't finish that brake job before lunch."
I look up. Holt's working on someone's sedan, methodical and focused. He glances at Finn. "What's the wager?"
"Loser buys lunch."
"Deal."
And then they're both moving, and I realize I'm watching an actual competition unfold. Finn's fast—almost reckless, hands flying through the work with efficiency that borders on chaotic. Holt's methodical, but not rushing either. Two completely different approaches to the same job.
I abandon my filing to watch. It's fascinating—the way they work, the way they've clearly done this a thousand times, the way they know each other's rhythms well enough to compete without ever looking at each other's progress.
Holt finishes first. Barely. Maybe thirty seconds before Finn.
"Dammit." Finn straightens up, wiping his hands on a rag. "I was so close."
"Close doesn't count."
"It should. I'm petitioning for a points system based on proximity."
"No."
Twenty minutes later, Finn returns from Sunny's with burgers and fries for everyone. He hands Holt his food, then walks over to the whiteboard with dramatic flair. Grabs the marker. Adds a single tally mark under Holt's name with the kind of ceremony usually reserved for important life events.
"You actually keep track?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"We've been doing this for eight years," Finn says, stepping back to admire his work. "I'm not losing by default."
"Who's winning overall?"
"Currently me. But it's close. Very close. Uncomfortably close, actually."
"I'll catch up," Holt says quietly, biting into his burger.
"Keep dreaming."
I'm grinning, watching them, and something warm creeps into my chest.
This.
This is what I wanted to be part of—this easy camaraderie, this history, this thing they have that's been building for years. And somehow, impossibly, they're letting me in.
That evening, the couch sounds worse than usual.
The springs aren't just groaning anymore—they're shrieking.
Protesting. Staging a full rebellion against the laws of physics and furniture design.
I lie in bed listening to Holt shift, adjust, shift again, and the guilt sits so heavy in my chest I can barely breathe.
This has to stop. I can't keep taking his bed while he destroys himself on furniture that hates him. But I don't know how to fix it without making it weird, without him refusing, without both of us stuck in this situation neither of us knows how to navigate.
Tomorrow, I think. Tomorrow I'll figure out how to fix this.
I fall asleep to the sound of pages turning and springs that sound like they're dying.
Wednesday morning starts with Finn teaching me how to check tire pressure, which somehow devolves into a philosophical discussion about the nature of air.
"It's just air," I say, watching him demonstrate on someone's truck. "Why does it matter?"
"Just air? JUST AIR?" He looks at me like I've personally offended him. "Scout. Air pressure is the difference between a smooth ride and careening off the road into a fiery death. Air pressure is life. Air pressure is everything."
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being accurate."
Holt walks past, coffee in hand. "You're being Finn."
"Same thing."
"Not a compliment."
"I'm taking it as one anyway." Finn grins at me. "Okay, Gremlin. Your turn. Show me what you learned."
I crouch down by the tire, gauge in hand, and immediately realize I've forgotten everything he just said. "Um. I put the thing on the... thing?"
"Eloquent."
"The technical term is escaping me."
"There is no technical term. It's literally 'put the gauge on the valve stem.'" He's trying not to laugh. "Come on. You've got this."
I press the gauge against the valve stem and it hisses at me. Air escapes. I panic and pull away. "I broke it! I broke the tire! How do you break a tire—"
"You didn't break it." Holt's crouched beside me now—when did he get here?—and his voice is patient. Calm. "Try again. Firm pressure. Straight on."
He guides my hand back to the valve stem, his fingers warm against mine, and suddenly I'm very aware of how close he is. How he smells like coffee and motor oil and something clean underneath. How his voice drops when he's teaching, goes quieter, focused entirely on making sure I understand.
I press the gauge on properly this time and it clicks. Numbers appear.
"Thirty-two PSI," I read.
"Good." He's still close enough that I can feel his breath against my temple. "That's perfect pressure. See? You didn't break anything."
"Yet," I mutter. "The day's young."
His mouth curves slightly and then he's standing, putting distance between us, going back to whatever he was doing. I'm left crouched by a tire with a gauge in my hand and my heart doing complicated things in my chest.
Finn's grinning at me. "You're learning."
"I nearly broke a tire."
"But you didn't. Growth."
"Your standards are terrifyingly low."
"I contain multitudes."
The afternoon brings Mrs. Castellano with cookies again—chocolate chip this time, still warm from the oven. She sets them on my desk and looks at me with those knowing eyes that make me think she sees way more than I'm comfortable with.
"How are you settling in, dear?"
"Good. Great. It's—I like it here." I gesture vaguely at the shop, the desk, the organized files that still make Finn grumble. "Everyone's been really nice."
"Holt treating you well?"
"Yeah. He's—" I don't know how to finish that sentence.
How do I explain that he's the kindest person I've ever met while barely speaking, that he shows care through actions instead of words, that he bought me coffee creamer and is fixing my car for free and gave me his bedroom without asking for anything in return? "He's great. They both are."
She pats my hand. "Good. You're good for this place, Scout. Good for them."
After she leaves, Finn materializes at my desk. "She's adopted you."
"She barely knows me."
"Doesn't matter. That's how it works here." He grabs a cookie. "You show up, you stay, you become part of the town. There's no trial period. No probation. You're just... in."
"That's terrifying."
"That's Coyote Bend." He takes a bite, makes an appreciative sound. "God, Mrs. Castellano's cookies are lethal. I'm gonna gain fifty pounds working here."
"You literally burned off every calorie you've consumed this week by noon."
"Details." He grins at me. "You fitting in okay? Like, actually okay?"
The question catches me off guard. "Yeah. I think so. Why?"
"Just checking." He's serious now, the humor dropping away. "You looked scared that first day. Like you were ready to bolt at any second."
"I was."
"But you didn't."
"No." I look around the shop—at Holt working under a hood, at the organized desk, at the space I've somehow claimed in less than two weeks. "I didn't."
"Good." He squeezes my shoulder. "We'd miss you if you left. Well, Holt would. I'd be fine."
"Liar."
"Okay, I'd miss you a little. But don't let it go to your head."
That evening, I make dinner again. Spaghetti, same as before, because my cooking repertoire is limited and I'm not trying to impress anyone. Holt comes up around sunset, covered in grease and sweat, and stops when he sees two plates on the table.
"You don't have to keep doing this," he says.
"I know." I hand him a fork. "But I made extra and eating alone is depressing, so you're doing me a favor. Sit."
He sits.
We eat.
And somewhere between the first bite and the last, the silence shifts from comfortable to something warmer. Something that feels like home but I'm not ready to name it yet.
After dinner, we do dishes together in that tiny kitchen. Our routine now. Me washing, him drying, elbows bumping in the cramped space. The intimacy of it hits me all at once—how domestic this is, how normal, how we've fallen into patterns like we've been doing this for years instead of days.
"Holt?" I say, hands still in the soapy water.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For the creamer. And the car. And—" I gesture vaguely. "Everything."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "You don't have to keep thanking me."
"I know. But I want to."
He nods, doesn't say anything else, but his hand brushes mine as he takes the last plate. The touch lingers half a second longer than necessary.