Chapter 17 #3
"And I was right." I finally look up, meet his eyes. "Because here—with you, with Finn, with this place—I learned what I'm actually capable of. What I can do when someone's not constantly telling me I can't."
"You're capable of a lot."
"I'm starting to see that." I set the butter knife down. "I handled that customer today. Didn't panic. Didn't need to be rescued. Just did it."
"You did."
"And it felt good. Really good." I turn to face him fully. "Like proving to myself that I'm not who he said I was. I'm not stupid or helpless or incapable of functioning without a man to guide me."
I can see him holding himself back from saying something, probably something violent about what he'd like to do to Evan.
"I know the difference now." I hold his gaze. "Between someone controlling me because they're scared I'll leave, and someone trusting me to make my own choices. Between love and ownership."
Something in his expression softens.
"You trust me," I say. Not a question. A fact I'm speaking out loud. "Even when you're scared. Even when you want to protect me. You still trust me to know my own mind."
"I do."
"That's the difference," I tell him. "That's how I know this is real. Not because you never worry or never want to protect me, but because you do those things without taking away my agency. Without deciding for me."
He nods slowly.
Gets it.
Gets me.
Gets why this matters—why him leaving hurt but him not trusting me hurt more, and why him coming back and choosing to believe me means everything.
The timer goes off. I pull the terrible garlic bread from the oven, drain the pasta, dump sauce over everything. We eat standing at the counter because we're too tired to pretend we have table manners. It's not good exactly, but it's food, and we're together, and that's enough.
After we eat, after we clean up, after the sun's fully set and the desert's gone dark outside, we end up back on the couch. Natural drift. The comfortable silence that's become our language.
I set my empty beer bottle down. Look at him. Feel the words forming, inevitable and true.
"I forgive you."
Holt goes completely still. Every muscle locked, eyes on me, hope and fear battling across his face in equal measure.
"For leaving. For not talking. For making me feel like I was the problem when I wasn't." I hold his gaze, need him to see how much I mean this. "I forgive you."
His throat works. Voice comes out rough.
"Thank you." His grip tightens. "For giving me another chance. For not giving up on this."
"Thank you for showing up to earn it." I squeeze his hand back. "Thank you for finally talking instead of running."
We sit there, the weight of forgiveness settling between us. Not dramatic. Not some big romantic gesture. Just real. Just me choosing to let go of the hurt, choosing to believe him, choosing to move forward.
My pulse slows in my throat. That knot that's been living there since he walked away finally loosening, finally letting me breathe all the way. Like I've been holding tension I didn't even know was there and now it's gone and I can finally relax.
"I missed you," I say.
"I missed you too."
"Can we just... not do that again?"
His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand, over and over, grounding and gentle. "Yeah. Let's not."
I lean my head on his shoulder. He shifts to accommodate me, arm coming around to hold me against his side. We fit together like this, and I wonder how we almost threw this away. How we almost let fear win when we could've just talked.
But we didn't.
We're here.
We stayed.
We chose each other.
That's what matters.
"Holt."
"Yeah?"
"Stay tonight. Please."
"Yeah. I'll stay."
He stands, holds out his hand. I take it, let him pull me up.
We move through the loft in comfortable silence—turning off lights, locking the door, these small domestic gestures that feel significant somehow.
When we reach his bedroom, he pauses in the doorway. Looks at me like he's checking one more time that I'm sure.
I am. So sure it doesn't even scare me.
I step into his space, rise up on my toes, kiss him. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer.
He responds immediately—hands cupping my face, deepening the kiss, making this small sound in the back of his throat that sends heat straight through me. His thumbs stroke my cheekbones, his kiss deepening but never demanding.
"Tell me what you want," he says against my mouth.
"You. Just you."
We undress each other slowly. No urgency, no desperation, just the quiet intimacy of relearning each other. His hands are gentle, questioning, waiting for permission at every step. When he pulls my tank top over my head, he pauses—eyes asking. I nod. Keep going.
My bra comes off. His shirt follows. The prosthetic's already off from earlier—I can see where it connects.
We make it to the bed. He lays me down careful, hovering over me, eyes searching mine. "Green?"
"So green."
His smile is small but real. He kisses me again—my mouth, my jaw, down my neck. Pauses at my collarbone where my pulse is hammering. His tongue traces it and I gasp, arch up. He does it again, slower. Learning what makes me react. What makes me want.
When his hand slides between my legs, I'm already wet. Ready. Wanting this so much my whole body's trembling with it. He works me slowly—one finger, then two, curling inside while his thumb finds my clit. My hips buck. He watches my face, reads every reaction.
I reach for him, wrap my hand around his length. He's hard, already leaking at the tip. I stroke him slow and he groans, pushes into my palm.
"Fuck." His voice is wrecked. "Scout."
"I need you." My voice comes out desperate, breathy. "Please."
He doesn't make me wait. Positions himself, the head of his cock pressing against me. His eyes lock on mine—asking one more time without words.
I nod.
He pushes in slow. So slow. Inch by inch, letting me adjust, giving me time to breathe. The stretch is intense, almost too much, my body tensing automatically.
He stops immediately. "Okay?"
"Don't stop." My hands grip his shoulders, nails digging in. "Please don't stop."
He doesn't. Keeps moving, slow and steady, watching my face like I'm the only thing in the world that matters. When he's fully seated inside me, we both pause—breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, just feeling this.
"God, Scout." His voice is wrecked. "You feel so good."
"Move. Please move."
He does. Pulls out almost all the way, pushes back in. Again. Again. Finding a rhythm that's unhurried, deliberate. Every thrust hits something deep inside that makes my toes curl, makes my breath catch, makes everything else disappear.
I wrap my legs around his waist, changing the angle. He groans, pushes deeper. Yes. That. Exactly that.
"Harder," I gasp.
"You sure?"
"Yes. Yes."
He gives me what I ask for—thrusting harder now, faster, the headboard tapping against the wall. But he's still checking in with his eyes, still watching my face, making sure this is good, making sure I'm with him.
"Touch yourself," he says rough.
I slide my hand between us, find my clit, circle it in time with his thrusts. Pleasure winds tighter, coiling low in my belly, building and building. His rhythm doesn't falter—steady, relentless, hitting that spot inside me over and over until I can't think, can't breathe, can only feel.
"Scout."
"I'm here. I'm right here."
When I come, it's with his name tearing out of me and his eyes locked on mine, pleasure ripping through me in waves that don't stop, don't let up, just keep crashing until I'm shaking with it.
He follows seconds later—face buried in my neck, my name a rough groan against my skin, his whole body shuddering with release.
We stay like that—tangled together, breathing hard, sweat-slicked and satisfied. My heart's still racing. His weight on me is grounding, real. Proof that this happened, that we're here, that we chose this.
Eventually he shifts, careful not to crush me. Pulls out slow, gentle. I wince slightly at the loss. He notices, kisses my forehead. Soft.
"You okay?"
I pull him down, need him close. "That was..."
"Yeah."
"This is what it should be like."
He lifts his head, looks at me. Understanding in his eyes.
"Yeah," he agrees quietly. "Not running. Not hiding. Just this."
"Just this."
He rolls to the side, pulls me with him so we're facing each other. His fingers trace patterns on my back—idle, affectionate, grounding. The ceiling fan clicks overhead, barely moving air but trying. Outside, the desert's gone quiet, that deep night silence that only happens here.
"Thank you," I say into the darkness.
"For what?"
"For staying. For talking. For this." I press closer, feeling his heartbeat against my chest. "For proving you meant it when you said you wouldn't run."
His arm tightens around me.
I trace the edge of where prosthetic would connect if he had it on—that place where his body changes. He doesn't flinch. Just lets me touch, lets me learn him.
"We're okay," I say. Not a question. A statement of fact.
"We're okay."
My eyes are getting heavy, sleep pulling at the edges. But I fight it for a moment longer, wanting to hold onto this—the peace, the safety, the simple rightness of being here with him. Of choosing to stay even when it was hard. Of building something real out of all our broken pieces.
I wake up to Holt's warmth surrounding me. Still wrapped around him, my leg thrown over his hip, our bodies pressed together so close there's no space left between us.
He's already awake. I can tell by the way his breathing's changed, the way his fingers are moving in my hair. Slow, gentle, like he's been lying here watching me sleep and isn't embarrassed about it.
"Morning," I mumble against his chest.
"Morning."
I stretch slightly, press closer instead of pulling away. His arms tighten around me instinctively, holding me there.
The room's still dim, that early morning light that happens before the sun really commits to the day. The AC's going strong, keeping the space bearable before the heat kicks in. I can hear birds outside—actual birds, which is rare enough out here that it feels special.
"You sleep okay?" he asks.
"Best I've slept in weeks." I tilt my head up to look at him. "You?"
"Yeah."
I grin, burrowing into his side. Feel his chest move with something that might be a laugh, his lips pressing to the top of my head.
It's not perfect. We'll probably fuck up again.
But right now, in this moment, wrapped in his arms with the desert waking up outside and the whole day ahead of us?
This is enough.
More than enough.
This is home.