Chapter 9 #2
My face goes nuclear. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry. I'm a walking disaster. I should come with a warning label—Caution: Will Assault You With Her Entire Body Without Notice—"
"Scout." His voice is strained. Tight. His hands haven't moved from my hips, fingers pressing in slightly.
"I'm getting up. Right now. I'm just—" I try to shift and end up grinding against him accidentally.
Holt makes a sound—low, rough, almost pained moan—and his hands tighten on my hips. Holding me completely still.
"Stop moving," he says through his teeth.
I freeze. "Sorry. I'll just—"
"Give me a second." His jaw is working, eyes closed, breathing slow like he's trying to will his body into submission.
This might actually kill me. Death by lap-sitting.
They'll find my body and Finn will give the eulogy and it'll just be him laughing for twenty minutes straight while explaining how I died of mortification after basically dry-humping my—what, roommate?
Friend? The guy whose bed I've been sharing for two nights who definitely has feelings about me sitting in his lap right now based on the very obvious evidence currently pressed against my thigh—
"This is mortifying," I whisper.
"For which one of us?"
I laugh despite everything, a little strangled. "Both?"
His mouth curves slightly. His hands haven't let go. Haven't loosened their grip at all. "Yeah. Both."
"I should get up now."
"Probably a good idea." But he doesn't let go immediately. His thumbs stroke once across my hip bones—deliberate, possessive—before he helps me stand.
I still can't look at him. Can't process what just happened. Can't think about the fact that I was sitting in his lap, feeling his cock hard against my thigh, while he gripped my hips and told me to stop moving in that voice that made everything inside me clench.
"I'm gonna go—inventory things. Over there. Far away from you and your—" I gesture vaguely. "—lap."
I escape to the back room and press my hands to my burning face.
Behind me, I hear Finn's voice, bright with delight: "Did she just—"
"Don't," Holt warns.
"Did you—"
"Finn."
"I'm just saying, that was—"
"Walk away."
"You know what? If we had HR, I'd be filing a hostile work environment complaint. This much sexual tension should come with hazard pay."
"Finn."
"I'm just saying! OSHA would have opinions. Safety regulations. Mandatory distance requirements—"
"Get back to work."
Finn's laughter echoes through the shop.
I stay in the back room for a solid five minutes, trying to get my breathing under control. Trying not to think about how good it felt to be in his lap. How right. How much I wanted to stay there.
When I finally emerge, Holt's focused very intently on an engine. His shoulders are tight in a way that suggests he's working through something mentally, possibly involving cold thoughts and baseball statistics. He doesn't look at me.
We dance around each other for the rest of the afternoon. Careful. Too careful. Every accidental brush of shoulders feels electric. Every time I catch him watching me, something hot and wanting coils low in my stomach.
Around four, I'm changing the oil on a sedan and he comes over with a part I need.
"Thanks," I say, reaching for it.
"Scout," he says quietly.
"Yeah?"
"I'm trying really hard to be professional right now."
"How's that going?"
"Not great." His eyes drop to my mouth. "Especially when you're wearing that tank top."
"I can put the overshirt back on."
"Don't." The word comes out rough. "I like the tank top."
My face heats. "Holt."
"Yeah?"
"You can't just say things like that while I'm trying to work."
"Why not?"
"Because I'll forget how to drain oil properly and then someone's car will explode."
His mouth curves. "Fair point." But he doesn't move away immediately. Just stands there, close enough that I can smell the clean sweat on him, the grease, the faint hint of the soap he uses.
Finn is having the time of his life, grinning at us like we're his personal entertainment. At one point he mutters "just coworkers" loud enough for us to hear, and Holt throws a rag at his head.
By the time we close up at six, I'm exhausted from the constant awareness. The tension humming under my skin all day. The way every small touch felt loaded with meaning.
We head upstairs in silence. Finn disappeared an hour ago—probably to give us space, which is both helpful and terrifying.
Holt makes dinner. Grilled cheese and tomato soup, nothing fancy, but we move around each other in the tiny kitchen with an ease that feels both comfortable and dangerous.
We eat at the small table by the window, watching the sunset turn the sky orange and pink. The cicadas are starting up again, that relentless drone that means the heat's still got us in its grip.
"You're quiet," he says.
"I'm always quiet when I'm eating."
"You're never quiet."
"...I'm processing."
"What?"
"Today. All of—" I wave my grilled cheese vaguely. "—that."
He sets down his spoon, looks at me. "We should probably talk about this morning."
"The cuddling?"
"Yeah."
I set down my grilled cheese. "What about it?"
"I woke up and you were right there and I—" He stops, his hand flexing around his spoon. "I didn't mind it."
"Holt-speak for you liked it?"
His mouth curves. "I liked it."
"Me too." I take a breath. "So what does that mean?"
"I don't know yet. But I know I don't want to sleep on that couch anymore."
"And if we wake up—you know. Like that again?"
He holds my gaze, steady and sure. "Then we wake up like that."
"And the lap incident?"
"Especially after the lap incident."
"Holt."
"What?"
"You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know what to do with it."
He's quiet for a moment, studying me. "I'm just—being honest."
We clean up in comfortable silence. When it's time for bed, there's still a moment of hesitation—but it's smaller now. Less scary.
I change, brush my teeth, come out to find Holt already in bed. He's on his side this time, facing my side, watching me.
"Hi," I say softly.
"Hi."
I climb in, settle on my side facing him. For a moment we just look at each other in the dim light filtering through the window.
"This is weird, right?" I ask quietly. "Sharing a bed but not—doing anything else?"
"A little."
"But okay weird?"
"Yeah. Okay weird."
I reach out tentatively and my hand finds his on the mattress between us. Our fingers lace together.
His thumb strokes across my knuckles. Once. Twice.
"Goodnight, Scout."
"Goodnight, Holt."
I close my eyes, holding his hand in the darkness, feeling the warmth of him just inches away.
We fall asleep like that—fingers intertwined, facing each other, close but not quite touching.
And sometime during the night, we move closer. Bodies finding each other in the dark. Curling together like we've been doing this forever.
When I wake at three a.m., I'm pressed against his chest, his arm wrapped around me, our legs tangled. I can feel him half-hard against my hip again, feel the steady beat of his heart under my ear, feel safe and wanted and home.
This time, I don't panic.
I just press closer and fall back asleep.