Chapter 3 #3
I retreat to the bedroom thinking about tire pressure and coffee creamer and the way his voice sounds when he's teaching me things.
Thursday morning, the shop is chaos.
Multiple cars, phones ringing constantly, Finn's music fighting a losing battle against power tools and customer voices and the general noise of a busy garage.
I'm in my element though—filing invoices, answering phones, directing customers, keeping everything organized while controlled chaos swirls around me.
This should stress me out. Should make my anxiety spike.
But instead I'm humming along to a song I don't know the words to, multitasking like my life depends on it.
I'm reaching for another invoice when I hear it.
The wrench hits the concrete.
Metallic. Sharp. Echoing off every surface, amplified by high ceilings and metal walls. The sound reverberates through the space, bouncing back and forth, and my body reacts before my brain catches up.
Everything stops.
My breath catches halfway—stuck, trapped, refusing to move.
My hands lock on the desk, knuckles going white, fingers digging into wood hard enough to hurt.
Cold sweat breaks out across my back, down my spine, prickling along my arms. The garage sounds start fading—Finn's music, the hum of equipment, voices saying things I can't process—going tiny and distant like I'm underwater.
Drowning.
I’m drowning.
My vision narrows to just the wood grain under my white-knuckled hands, everything else going dark and blurry around the edges.
Loud sounds.
Metallic.
The kind that come before pain.
Before violence.
Before everything goes wrong and you can't stop it, can't fix it, can't do anything except freeze and wait for it to be over.
Don't move don't breathe don't make a sound because drawing attention gets you hurt more, gets you—
My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I can feel it in my throat, taste it. The world's shrinking, closing in, and I can't breathe can't think can't move can't—
"Hey." Finn's voice, quiet. Careful. "Scout?"
I can't answer.
Can't look at him.
My throat's closed, lungs not working right, and I'm trying to remember how to breathe but the panic's too big, too much, swallowing everything.
Footsteps.
Heavy.
Steady.
Boots on concrete.
Each step loud enough to track through the static filling my head. Getting closer but not rushing, not running, just measured and deliberate and familiar.
Then he's there.
Holt.
Standing beside my desk, close enough that I can sense him without looking up. He's not touching me. Not crowding my space. Not trying to force me to look at him or speak or perform being okay. Just... present. Solid. Real.
"You're good." His voice is low, steady, cutting through the panic. "Just a dropped tool. That's all. Metal on concrete. Nothing else."
The words register slowly, fighting through layers of panic and fear and trauma that lives in my body whether I want it to or not.
Just a dropped tool.
Not danger.
Not threat.
Not violence incoming.
Just Finn being clumsy, just an accident, just noise that can't actually hurt me.
Just noise.
My lungs unlock slightly. I manage half a breath—shaky, catching on something in my chest—and then another. My hands are still locked on the desk but I can feel them now, feel the ache spreading up my wrists.
"Breathe," Holt says. Not a command. A reminder. An anchor. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. You know how to do this."
I do.
I try. In through my nose—shakier than I want, hitching halfway—and out through my mouth. The panic starts receding, slow and reluctant, leaving me shaky and raw and so fucking tired.
"Yeah." My voice comes out thin. Barely there. "Sorry. I'm fine."
"Didn't ask if you were fine."
The words hit different than they should. Not dismissive. Not annoyed. Just... factual. Matter-of-fact. He's not asking me to perform okay, not demanding I prove I'm functional. He's just letting me know he's here. That I don't have to pretend.
I try to breathe again. In through my nose—easier this time. Out through my mouth. My chest loosens slightly. My fingers slowly uncurl from the desk, joints protesting.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He nods once. Doesn't say anything else.
Doesn't ask what triggered it, doesn't demand explanations, doesn't look at me like I'm broken or fragile or something that needs fixing.
He just stands there for a few more seconds—solid and steady, something I can anchor to.
He gives me one more look over and nods, walking away, back to whatever thing he was fixing before I lost my shit.
He continues working like nothing happened.
Except everything happened.
Finn gives me a gentle smile from across the garage, the kind that says I understand, I've got you, and goes back under the truck he was working on.
The music keeps playing. The shop keeps running.
Nobody makes it a thing. Nobody stares. Nobody asks if I'm okay or tries to force me to talk about it.
They just... let me be.
But I notice—for the rest of the afternoon, Holt checks on me. Not obviously. Not hovering. Just... periodically, his eyes find me across the garage. Making sure.
Staying aware.
And I notice something else too: when he sets down tools, he does it carefully now.
Gently. No more sudden metallic sounds echoing through the space.
He's accommodating me without making me feel weak about it, adjusting his entire workflow without making it my fault, protecting me from triggers I didn't even have to explain.
He saw me at my most vulnerable and he didn't ask why.
He just helped.
By closing time, I'm steadier. The panic has faded into that dull exhausted ache that comes after adrenaline burns off, leaving everything feeling heavy and wrung-out.
My hands are still a little shaky. My throat still feels tight.
But I'm functional. I'm here. I survived a trigger without falling completely apart.
That feels like something.
Finn squeezes my shoulder as he passes—quick, gentle, saying nothing because nothing needs to be said. Holt finishes whatever he was working on, wipes his hands on a rag, and glances at me.
"You coming up?"
"Yeah. Just finishing this."
He nods, and heads for the stairs.
I finish filing the last invoice with hands that only shake a little, shut down the computer, lock the front door. The walk up the stairs feels longer than usual, my legs heavy. By the time I reach the loft, Holt's already inside, moving around the small space.
But when I walk through the door, I notice something immediately.
Finn's workbench—the one visible through the window overlooking the shop floor—has been subtly rearranged.
His tools, which he swears he organizes by size from smallest to largest, are still organized by size.
Just... in reverse order. Largest to smallest.
I almost miss it. Would have missed it if I hadn't been staring out the window trying to ground myself.
I shake my head laughing as I reach for the door to the loft, turning the handle to go inside.
"Holt."
"Hmm?" Holt doesn't look up from his coffee.
"My wrenches were organized by size."
"Still are."
Finn looks closer at his bench, his expression morphing from confusion to realization to grudging respect. "You're a child."
Holt's mouth curves slightly. But it's there.
"A literal child," Finn continues. "This is the most petty thing you've ever done and I respect it but also I hate you."
"Noted."
"When did you even do this? I was here until six yesterday."
I'm watching this exchange, fascination growing in my chest. They've been pranking each other forever. This isn't new. This is just another day in whatever weird competitive friendship they've built over eight years of working side by side.
"I'm retaliating," Finn announces.
"Looking forward to it."
"It's going to be so good. So petty. You won't even see it coming."
"Sure."
Finn looks at me. "You see this? You see what I deal with?"
"I see a grown man complaining about organized wrenches."
"They're in the WRONG ORDER."
"But they're organized."
"Not the point!"
Holt's shoulders shake—that silent laugh again—and something warm blooms in my chest. They're letting me see this. This thing they do. This history. And I'm part of it now, somehow. Part of their world.
By the time I drag my lifeless legs up the stairs, the warmth has cooled into something quieter, something that follows me up and sinks its teeth in.
I move through the loft slower than usual, caught on the memory of their laugh.
The place feels smaller tonight, the walls closer, and I’m hyperaware of Holt in a way that tightens my throat.
He’s in the kitchenette pulling out ramen and vegetables, and I step in beside him without asking because this is what we do now—this domestic dance in four square feet of functional space where we’ve learned how to move around each other without colliding.
"You're already on it," I say, because someone has to fill the silence and it's always going to be me. "Ramen with actual vegetables. Look at us, being all responsible and nutritious. Next thing you know we'll be eating salads and drinking green smoothies and becoming those people."
"It's still barely cooking."
"Says the man who thinks sandwiches count as gourmet."
"Sandwiches are an art form."
"They're bread with stuff in the middle. That's not art. That's assembly."
"You've clearly never had a properly constructed sandwich."
"I had the one you made me Monday. It was good but it wasn't art."
His mouth twitches. "You're very critical for someone who can't cook."
"I can cook! I made spaghetti. Twice. That's cooking."
"That's boiling water and opening a jar."
"Still counts."
We work together in the cramped kitchen—me at the stove with the pot of water, him at the counter chopping vegetables.