Chapter 7 #2
"Your leg. I can see it." I turn to face him fully, pulling one knee onto the hood. "You keep shifting your weight. Trying not to put pressure on your right side. You winced when you moved earlier."
"It's fine."
"Holt."
He sighs, long and heavy, rubbing a hand over his face. "Long days make it worse. Socket rubs raw when it swells."
"Can I help?"
"Scout—"
"I'm not pitying you. I'm asking if there's something I can do." I scoot closer, knee touching his thigh now. "Ice? Adjusting it? Elevation? Tell me what you need."
He looks at me for a long moment. His eyebrows lift slightly, like he's surprised or maybe relieved. "You want to see it?" he asks quietly. "Really see it?"
"Only if you want to show me."
The pause is weighted, full of consideration. Then he shifts, rolls up the leg of his jeans. The prosthetic catches starlight— beautiful in how purposeful it is. He unfastens straps and eases it off with a wince that makes my ribs squeeze.
The skin underneath is angry red. Swollen where socket meets flesh, raw where it's been rubbing all day.
I've seen the prosthetic before—knew it existed, lived with the knowledge for weeks—but this is different.
This is trust. This is him showing the part that hurts, the part he hides, the part nobody sees.
"Oh, Holt," I say, and I can't keep the ache out of my voice.
"It's not—"
"What helps?" I cut him off before he can downplay it.
He hesitates, jaw working. "The straps. Too tight. Makes it worse when it swells but I have to keep them tight or it shifts."
"Show me how to adjust them."
He does. Hands moving slow, loosening one strap then another, demonstrating pressure points. I watch carefully, memorizing movements, order, which straps do what.
"Okay," I say. "Let me try."
I take it from him, feel the weight—heavier than expected, warm from his body. My fingers find the first strap and I work it loose, watching his face.
"Like this?"
"Yeah. Little more on that side."
I adjust, fingers brushing skin where the socket sits. He inhales sharp and I freeze. "Did I hurt you?"
"No." Voice rough. Strained. "Just—no one's ever—"
"What?"
He doesn't finish. Just watches me work, breathing careful and controlled like he's keeping himself in check. I loosen the next strap, test tension, glance up. "Better?"
"Yeah."
I work through each one, taking my time, making sure it's right. Hands steady even though my pulse is hammering, even though I'm hyperaware of every contact point—my knee against his thigh, my fingers on his skin, warmth of him in cool night air.
"No one's ever helped," he says finally, barely above a whisper. "Without making it a thing."
I look up. "It's not a thing. It's just you."
His mouth twitches, eyes going soft at the edges. He reaches out like he's going to touch my face, hand coming up, fingers almost brushing my cheek—then stops. Hovers between us for two heartbeats before dropping.
I sit back, still holding the prosthetic, giving space. "My turn," I say, trying to keep my voice light even though I have to swallow twice. "Fair's fair. You told me yours."
"Scout—"
"His name was Evan. We were together for years. Engaged for six months."
Holt's jaw tightens but he stays silent.
"He was... careful," I continue, words tasting bitter. "Made everything seem like it was for my own good. I was too loud, too messy, too much. He'd say it with a smile, like he was helping me be better."
"You're not too much."
"Everyone has flaws, Holt. Mine are just louder than most people's.
" I wrap my arms around my knees, pull them closer to my chest. "It got worse after we got engaged.
He wanted me smaller. Quieter. More manageable.
Like I was a project he was fixing. And I just..
. let him. Believed him when he said the bruises were affection, that I was lucky someone put up with me. "
"Scout."
"I left days before the wedding. Packed a bag, drove until my car started making that rattling sound, saw the sign for Coyote Bend, and thought 'Well, this is as good a place as any to fall apart.
'" I look at him. "I ended up here. Stayed because it felt like the first place I could breathe in years.
Because you gave me a job when you had no reason to.
Because Finn made me laugh. Because this place—" My voice catches.
"This place felt like maybe I could be myself again.
The loud, messy, too-much version Evan spent years trying to sand down. "
Absolute silence. Even crickets seem to have stopped.
"You're not small," Holt says finally. Rough. Fierce. Certain. "You fill every room you're in."
I can't quite get a full breath. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He shifts closer, and now we're almost touching, knee to knee, close enough to see lighter blue flecks in his eyes. "You're exactly right. The way you are."
I'm staring at his mouth. The way his lips barely move when he talks, the way they're parted now like he's about to say something else. I can see his breath in cool night air, count seconds between inhales.
"I'm not running anymore," I say quietly, not sure if I'm talking about Evan or this moment or something else entirely. "From anything."
His hand comes up again. Almost touches my face. Fingertips a breath away from my cheek, close enough to feel heat but not contact. Every muscle screams at me to close that distance, to take what I want.
"Scout..." My name sounds like prayer and warning and plea.
"Yeah?"
He drops his hand. Pulls back. "You deserve better."
I blink. "What?"
"Better than this. Better than—" He gestures at himself, at the prosthetic, at all of him. "Me."
"That's not—"
"You just got out of something that hurt you. You're rebuilding. You don't need—" He stops. Starts again. "You deserve someone who's not broken. Someone who can give you what you need."
"And what if what I need is you?" My voice comes out sharper than I intended. "What if I'm sitting here telling you that I want this and you're deciding for me that I'm wrong?"
His mouth goes hard. "I'm not deciding for you—"
"Yes, you are. You're telling me what I deserve instead of listening to what I'm saying I want.
" I lean forward, not letting him retreat.
"I drove twenty minutes into the desert at one thirty in the morning because I couldn't stop thinking about you.
I helped you with your leg. I told you about Evan.
I'm right here, Holt. I'm choosing this. I'm choosing you."
"You don't know what you're choosing."
"Don't do that. Don't tell me I don't know my own mind." My hands curl into fists. "Evan did that for years. Told me I didn't know what I wanted, what was good for me, what I deserved. And now you're doing the same thing."
He flinches like I hit him. "That's not—I'm trying to protect you."
"From what? From you?" I shake my head. "You're not him, Holt. You're nothing like him. And if you think I can't see the difference, then you're not paying attention."
"I'm your boss. Your landlord. You work for me, you live in my space—"
"So? I'm an adult. I can make my own choices about who I—" I stop, swallow hard. "You don't get to decide you're not good enough for me. That's my choice to make."
He's quiet for a long moment, jaw working. "Scout—"
"Do you want this?" I ask directly. "Do you want me?"
"That's not the point."
"It's exactly the point. Do you?"
Long pause. His eyes hold mine and I see everything there—want and fear and something that looks like pain. "Yeah," he says finally, voice rough. "I do."
"Then why are we sitting here arguing about it?"
"Because if I let myself have this—have you—and I mess it up..." He stops, jaw working. "I can't mess this up, Scout. You're too important."
"So you're choosing nothing instead? You're deciding for both of us that it's better to not even try?"
"I'm choosing to wait. Until you're sure. Until I'm—" He stops again.
"Until you're what?"
"Until I'm someone worth choosing."
"Holt—"
"Not yet." His voice is firm now. Final. "I need you to be sure. And I need to be—I need to be better than I am right now."
"You're already—"
"Scout." He cuts me off gently but there's no room for argument in his voice. "Not yet."
I stare at him, frustration and affection and understanding all tangled up. He's wrong. He's so wrong about himself, about what he's worth, about what I want. But he's also immovable on this, and I can see it in every line of his body.
"Okay," I say finally, because what else can I say? I can't force him to see himself the way I see him. "But for the record? You're wrong. About all of it."
"Maybe." He almost smiles. "But I'm not changing my mind."
"Stubborn."
"Yeah."
The pause stretches, both of us choosing restraint when we could choose something else. Then he reaches for the prosthetic and I help him get it back on, hands steadier than his this time. Each strap adjusted the way he showed me, checking tension, making sure nothing's too tight or loose.
"Thank you," he says when I'm done.
"For what?"
"Finding me."