Chapter 9
His dick.
That's my first conscious thought. Not 'where am I' or 'what time is it' but 'holy shit that's Holt's cock' because it's pressed against my lower back and there is zero ambiguity about what I'm feeling right now.
The second thing I register is his hand—palm flat across my stomach, fingers splayed wide. His chest is flush against my back, his leg hooked over mine, and we definitely did not fall asleep like this.
We moved. Found each other in the dark. Tangled ourselves together like bodies that have been doing this for years instead of hours.
I should move. Extract myself before this gets weird. Before he wakes up and realizes his dick has opinions about our sleeping arrangements.
Except I'm so comfortable. Tangled up in him, his weight anchoring me, and I don't want to move. I want to stay here. I want to press back and find out what happens if—
His breathing changes.
Oh fuck.
I feel the exact moment awareness hits him. Every muscle goes tense against me. The slight hitch in his breath when he realizes where his hand is, where I am, what's currently pressed against my spine.
Neither of us moves.
Then he carefully—so carefully—extracts himself. Pulls his arm back, shifts away, puts space between us like he's defusing a bomb.
"Morning," he says, voice sleep-rough and strained.
"Morning." I still don't turn around because if I look at him right now I might combust. "So that happened."
"Yeah."
"Just so we're clear, I'm a sleep cuddler. It's a condition. Very serious. Doctors are baffled."
His laugh is quiet, a little strangled. "Noted."
"And you're a—" I gesture vaguely at the space where we were just tangled together. "—apparently also a cuddler. Who knew."
"Apparently." He sits up and I hear him reach for his prosthetic. "I should—bathroom."
"Yeah. Good. Bathroom sounds good."
He disappears and I finally roll over, grab a pillow, and press it over my face to muffle the sound I make that's half laugh, half scream, fully unhinged.
The shower starts and I hear it through the wall—water hitting tile, hitting him—and I need to stop thinking about this immediately.
Cold water. Definitely cold water. Probably gripping the shower wall with one hand while the other—nope.
Not thinking about it. Absolutely not picturing Holt under the spray, head tipped back, hand wrapped around—
I force myself out of bed before my brain can finish that thought, stumble to the kitchen in desperate need of coffee and a personality transplant.
I'm measuring grounds with shaking hands when Finn materializes in the doorway like he's been summoned by sexual frustration.
"Morning, sunshine," he says, entirely too cheerful for seven a.m.
"Why are you here."
"I live here."
"You have an Airstream."
"Yeah, but you guys have better coffee. And running water that doesn't taste like metal." He leans against the doorframe, studying me with eyes that miss exactly nothing. "Sleep well?"
My face ignites. "Fine. Normal. Why."
"Just asking." His grin is pure evil. "You look a little flustered."
"It's hot."
"It's seven in the morning."
"I run warm."
"Scout. You literally never stop talking." He's enjoying this far too much. "I've heard you narrate making coffee. Full running commentary."
"Maybe I'm sick. Maybe I have a fever. Maybe you should leave me alone to die in peace."
The shower shuts off. We both hear it.
"Interesting that Holt's showering this early," Finn observes. "He usually waits until after coffee."
"Maybe he also has a fever."
"Or maybe he needed a cold shower." His eyes sparkle with mischief. "You know. For reasons."
I throw the coffee scoop at him. He catches it, laughing.
Holt emerges in jeans and a gray t-shirt, hair still damp, and doesn't quite meet my eyes as he moves to the coffee pot. Our fingers brush when I hand him a mug and we both freeze like we've been electrocuted.
Finn makes a noise that's definitely not a cough.
"So," Finn says brightly. "What's the plan for today?"
"Work," Holt says.
"Existing," I add. "Breathing. Not dying of embarrassment. The usual."
"Great. Love the specificity." Finn pours himself coffee, still grinning like he knows all our secrets. "Guess we should head down then. Lots of cars. Lots of close quarters. Lots of opportunities for—"
"Finn," Holt warns.
"—teamwork! I was going to say teamwork, Jesus." He's already heading for the stairs. "You two coming or are you gonna stand there staring at each other all day?"
We're not staring. Except we absolutely are staring and when I finally tear my eyes away, my face is on fire.
It's going to be a long day.
By mid-morning, I've cataloged every time Holt's looked at me. Not glanced—looked. The kind of looking that makes my skin feel too tight and my brain go static-fuzzy. Four times. Four distinct, prolonged moments of him watching me.
The shop is sweltering. Even with all three floor fans running, it's just hot air moving in lazy circles, doing absolutely nothing except making the tools too hot to touch without wincing. I'm overheating in my button-up overshirt, sweat pooling at the small of my back.
I pull it off without thinking, down to just my white tank top.
The tank top that is—I realize as fabric settles against damp skin—way tighter than I remembered. Like painted-on tight. Like 'you can definitely see my bra through this' tight. Like maybe I should've kept the button-up on but it's too late now because—
I turn to hang the shirt on my chair and catch Holt staring.
Not glancing. Full-on staring at my chest like he's never seen it before, wrench frozen in his hand, shoulders gone rigid in a way that has nothing to do with the carburetor he's supposed to be fixing.
Our eyes meet. He doesn't look away. Doesn't even pretend he wasn't just openly checking me out.
The air gets thick. My pulse kicks up. Heat that has nothing to do with the temperature floods through me.
"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing." But his voice is rough and his eyes drag down slowly, before he turns back to the engine he's working on.
I catch Finn grinning from across the shop and flip him off when Holt's not looking.
The tank top feels like a second skin for the next hour. Every time I move, I'm aware of it. Aware of Holt tracking me with his eyes. Aware of the way his shoulders tense when I stretch to reach something on a high shelf, the way his knuckles go white around whatever tool he's holding.
"You're staring again," I say without looking at him.
"Yeah." No apology. No excuse.
I turn around. He's leaning against his workbench, arms crossed, just—looking at me. Open about it now. Unapologetic.
"That's not creepy at all," I say, but my voice comes out breathless.
"You want me to stop?"
Do I? I should. I should absolutely want him to stop looking at me like that, like he's thinking about things that would make me forget how to form words.
"I didn't say that."
His mouth curves. "Didn't think so."
Finn walks past whistling and I want to murder him.
The tension hums under my skin for the rest of the morning. Every time Holt passes behind me, I feel it—that awareness that prickles across my shoulders, makes me hyperconscious of every breath.
Just after lunch, I'm carrying a stack of invoices, walking backward while arguing with Finn about his complete lack of organizational skills.
"I'm just saying, if you labeled literally anything—"
My foot catches on absolutely nothing. My own feet. Because I'm that graceful.
I stumble forward, invoices flying everywhere like the world's saddest confetti, and I'm about to eat concrete—
Holt moves fast. One second I'm going down, the next his hands are on my waist, catching me, pulling me back against his chest.
I'm pressed right up against him. His hands span my waist, thumbs brushing bare skin where my tank top rode up. I can feel his heart pounding as hard as mine.
"Careful," he says, voice low.
"I'm always careful."
"You're the clumsiest person I've ever met."
"That's not even remotely true. I once saw Finn walk into a parked car."
"It was one time," Finn protests from somewhere behind me.
Holt's hands are still on my waist. Warm. Steady. Not moving away.
His thumb strokes once across my skin—deliberate this time, not accidental—and my breath catches.
"You good?" he asks quietly.
"Yeah. I'm—yeah."
We stand there. Too close. His hands burning into my skin. Neither of us moving.
Finn clears his throat loudly. "Should I leave you two alone or—"
We spring apart like we've been caught doing something way more interesting than standing too close.
I crouch to gather scattered invoices, face burning. When I risk a glance at Holt, he's staring at where his hands just were, something dark and hungry in his expression before he catches himself.
That wasn't nothing. That was definitely something.
Two hours later, disaster strikes in the form of my own clumsiness and a box on the top shelf.
I'm reaching for parts inventory behind Holt's workbench. He's sitting on the rolling stool flipping through a manual, and I'm on my toes, fingers just barely brushing the box I need.
"Need help?" he asks without looking up.
"I got it, I just need to—"
The box comes loose. All at once. No warning.
I lose my balance, stumble backward, arms pinwheeling—
And land directly in Holt's lap.
Full weight. No warning. Right on top of him.
The stool rolls backward from the impact and his hands fly to my hips automatically, steadying us before we both flip over.
Nobody moves. The stool is still rolling slightly, the floor fan clicking overhead like a metronome counting the seconds I'm sitting here in his lap, and oh my god—
I'm sitting sideways across his lap, his hands gripping my hips, my ass pressed against his thighs. And oh god, oh fuck, I can feel him—hard against my thigh, impossible to miss, impossible to ignore.