Chapter 5 #3
"I was calculating if fifteen chickens would fit in his truck bed," Holt admits.
"See? We were this close." Finn holds his fingers barely apart. "But then Holt remembered we have nowhere to keep chickens and also we need actual money to, you know, buy parts and pay rent and eat food."
"Practical concerns," Holt says dryly.
"Always ruining my fun with your logic."
"Someone has to."
The conversation continues—stories and laughter and easy comfort. The stars come out properly, scattered across the sky in numbers I've never seen. Finn keeps the beers coming, the music plays low, and I realize something.
"You know what I just realized?" Finn says, stretching. "It's been over a year since we had anyone new at these things. Like, actually new. Not just customers or people passing through. Someone who's staying."
"We don't do this with customers," Holt clarifies, glancing at me.
"This is just us," Finn adds. "Has been for years now. Just the two of us."
"Too long." Holt's voice is quieter now, thoughtful.
"It's been sad," Finn corrects. "Two sad bastards drinking beer and pretending we have social lives that extend beyond each other and Mitch's gossip."
"We have social lives."
"We really don't. Our social life is work and this and the occasional town event we can't avoid." Finn meets my eyes. "See? This is better. Now we have Scout. Things are less pathetic."
"Glad I could help with your pathetic situation," I say, but my throat feels tight because I'm realizing what he's saying. What they're both saying without saying it directly.
"You fit here," Holt says quietly, and when I turn to him his eyes are steady on mine. "In case that wasn't clear."
"I'm getting that," I manage. "Slowly. Against my better judgment and all evidence that I'm a disaster."
"Best kind of disaster," Finn says, raising his beer. "To Scout. Making us slightly less pathetic."
"Worst toast ever," I say.
"I'm working with limited material."
"To Scout," Holt says, voice low and warm and something else I can't quite name. He raises his beer, holds my gaze. "Welcome home."
Welcome home.
Not welcome to Coyote Bend.
Not welcome to the shop.
Welcome home.
Like this is it. Like I've arrived at the place I was always supposed to be.
We drink and I have to blink hard because my eyes are burning and I'm not crying at a trailer in the desert over beer and belonging, I'm not, except maybe I am a little bit.
Eventually Finn yawns and announces he's done. "Old man hours," he says, standing. "I'm calling it."
"It's nine-thirty," I point out.
"Ancient. Decrepit. Ready for my nap." He starts collecting empties. "You two heading back?"
Holt glances at me. "You ready?"
"Yeah."
"Sleep well, kids," Finn says, disappearing into his trailer.
"Goodnight, Finn," Holt calls after him.
"Night! Love you both! Platonically! Mostly!"
The door closes and it's just Holt and me standing in the circle of string lights. The desert's quiet around us—cicadas and wind, nothing else competing. It's peaceful in a way that makes my chest ache.
"Come on," Holt says. "Let's get back."
We walk without talking. Not awkward—the easy kind where you don't need to fill every second with words. The night's cool enough now that I'm almost cold in my tank top, and the stars are so bright they cast actual shadows across the dirt road.
"Today was good," I say finally. "Meeting everyone. Seeing the town. This. All of it."
He glances over. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I hesitate. "Maeve told me. About you and Finn being in the military."
His stride doesn't break but I feel him go aware. Not defensive. Conscious. "That bother you?"
"No. Why would it?" I watch my feet on the uneven ground. "She said it wasn't her story to tell, so I'm not asking for details. Just... acknowledging that I heard. That I know."
"It's not a secret." He's quiet for a moment. "Not something I lead with. Hi, I'm Holt, I fix cars and I'm a veteran. Doesn't come up much."
"Does it bother you that she mentioned it?"
"No." He seems to consider this. "It's part of who I am. Who we are. Finn and I wouldn't be here without it. Wouldn't have the shop, wouldn't have—" He stops. "It's not a secret. Just not the first thing I tell people."
"Fair enough."
We reach the shop, start climbing the metal stairs together.
The landing is tiny—barely big enough for two people—and we're standing too close. Close enough that I catch his scent—grease and clean sweat and cedar. Close enough that I can see the way his chest rises and falls with each breath. Close enough that if I leaned forward just slightly—
I reach for my keys. My hands shake.
They slip from my fingers.
We both reach down at the same time.
Our hands collide.
His fingers brush mine—calloused and warm and solid—and sensation shoots up my arm. Heat that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with contact.
We both freeze.
Eye contact in the dark, too close, his hand still touching mine where we're both reaching for the keys. The air gets heavy. Thick with something that's been building for days.
His fingers curl slightly against mine. Not grabbing. Not pulling away. There. Touching. Connected.
I can't breathe. My heart's hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my ears, in every point of contact between us. His eyes are dark in the dim light, pupils blown wide, and he's looking at me like—
His mouth tenses. I watch it happen—watch him fight whatever he's feeling, remind himself of boundaries and professionalism and all the reasons he shouldn't be looking at me like that. But he doesn't pull away. Doesn't move. Stays there, hand against mine, both of us suspended.
My breath catches audibly. The sound breaks whatever spell we're under.
He pulls back. Fast but not violent. Creates space between us, picks up my keys in one smooth motion, hands them to me without our fingers touching this time.
"Goodnight, Scout." His voice is rougher than usual. Strained.
"Goodnight, Holt."
He unlocks the door and holds it open. I slip past him and that familiar brush of proximity feels different now. Electric. Significant. Like every time we're close is building toward something neither of us is ready to name.
Inside, the loft feels smaller. The air feels thinner. I'm hyperaware of every sound—his footsteps behind me, the door closing, the lock clicking into place.
He goes to the couch. Picks up his book. The picture of normalcy except his hands are tense on the cover and he's not actually looking at the pages.
I head for the bedroom. Stop in the doorway. Turn back.
"Holt?"
He meets my eyes.
"You're important. To me. I wouldn't have stayed without you."
His expression does something complicated—softens and tightens at the same time, like I've said something that matters but hurts in a good way. For a second he looks younger, less guarded, more human.
Then it's gone.
"Get some sleep, Scout."
"Yeah. Okay."