Chapter 8 #3
"Holt. You're sleeping on concrete. That's not fine. That's—" I stop, recalibrate. "I'm taking the floor tonight. You get the bed."
Now he stops. Turns to look at me, dish towel in hand. "No."
"It's not a request."
"Scout—"
"No. You've been in pain and not saying anything because what, because you gave me the bed weeks ago and now you're stuck with that decision? Because you're too stubborn to admit you need—" I break off, frustrated. "I'm sleeping on the floor if you don't share the bed. That's the deal."
"You're not sleeping on the floor."
"Then share the damn bed."
We're locked in some kind of standoff, him with his jaw set in that stubborn line, me with my arms crossed trying to look immovable.
And then, from outside, comes the most unholy sound I've ever heard—Finn, murdering the accordion, playing what might be "Mary Had a Little Lamb" if Mary's lamb was being exorcised.
Holt closes his eyes. "No."
"YES," Finn yells from outside. The accordion screeches in agreement.
"He's going to play every night until you agree," I say, trying not to laugh. "And he bought googly eyes. He's committed."
The accordion launches into a second verse, somehow worse than the first. Holt looks at me, that deadpan expression cracking just slightly at the edges.
"This was your plan."
"This was Finn's plan. I'm just the attractive messenger."
He almost smiles. Almost. Then sighs, long and defeated. "You take the left side. I snore."
"I'll survive."
"If I crowd you—"
"I'll kick you." I'm grinning now, victorious. "See? Compromise. Very mature."
"This isn't compromise, this is extortion."
"Finn's playing a third verse. Still want to argue?"
He doesn't. Just shakes his head, hangs up the dish towel, and surrenders with as much dignity as a man can while being serenaded by a weaponized accordion. I lean out the window.
"Stand down, Weller. Mission accomplished."
"THAT'S WHAT I LIKE TO HEAR." The accordion plays what might be a victory song. Or a death rattle. Hard to say. "Goodnight, lovers. Remember—Gerald's watching."
I look at Holt. He looks at the ceiling like he's asking for divine intervention.
"Your friends are insane," he says.
"You picked them."
"Regret that now."
But he's almost-smiling when he says it, and that counts for something.
Later, after I've changed into sleep shorts and a tank top, after Holt's done his nightly routine and I've very deliberately not watched him take off his prosthetic because that feels too intimate somehow, we're both standing on opposite sides of the bed.
"I can build a pillow wall," I offer.
"Don't need a pillow wall."
"I'm a thrasher. Might kick you in my sleep."
"I'll survive."
"If you're uncomfortable—"
"Scout." He waits until I look at him. "Just get in the damn bed."
So I do. Slip under the covers on the left side like he said, trying to take up minimal space.
He's careful getting in on the right, moving slow, and I realize he's trying not to jostle me.
Like I'm something fragile instead of the chaos gremlin who spent today covered in paint dust causing hardware store mayhem.
The bed is small enough that I can feel the heat of him even though we're not touching.
Can hear his breathing in the dark, steady and even.
The ceiling fan clicks overhead, shadows spinning lazy circles across the ceiling.
Somewhere outside a dog barks and the night settles around us like a blanket.
"Thank you," he says, quiet.
"No thanking. Those are the rules."
"Whose rules?"
"Mine. Just made them up."
I feel more than hear his laugh, just a small exhale. "You can't just make up rules."
"I'm currently in your bed forcing you to sleep like a human instead of a martyr. I can definitely make up rules."
"Fair point."
Silence, comfortable and warm. I should probably try to sleep but my brain is still running at highway speed, full of Finn's words and hardware store chaos and the feeling of Holt this close without the weight of "not yet" between us.
"Finn told me about the IED. His version." I say it to the dark, to the space between us. "About feeling guilty."
"He shouldn't."
"He does anyway. Because he loves you and thinks he broke you."
"He didn't break me." Holt's voice is rough, certain. "He saved me. Everything after was just—consequences. But I'm here because of him."
"You should tell him that more often."
"I do. He doesn't listen."
"Wonder where he learned that from."
Another almost-laugh. I can hear the smile in it. "You're impossible."
"You say that like it's new information."
My hand is on top of the covers, fingers curled against the sheet.
And maybe it's the dark, or the fact that we survived today's chaos together, or the weight of "not yet" feeling less like a barrier and more like a promise, but I feel Holt's hand find mine.
His palm is warm and callused from years of wrenches and engine parts, heavy enough that I feel the weight of it like an anchor.
His fingers wrap around my palm, and I'm staring at the ceiling fan's shadow because if I look at him right now I might say something that ruins this.
I don't move except to curl my fingers back around his, holding on like he's the only steady thing in a spinning room.
"Goodnight, Scout."
"Goodnight, Holt."
From outside, the accordion starts up again—one final victory song that sounds like Gerald's soul leaving his ceramic body.
We both start laughing, hands still clasped between us in the dark, and that's how I fall asleep.
Holding onto Holt Ward while Finn Weller murders polka music in the desert night.