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.
Chapter 18
Three days since Holt and I talked everything through, and it's been good. Really good. Three days of waking up next to him, of easy mornings and easier conversation, of feeling like I can finally breathe all the way. That constant tightness in my chest is just—gone.
The shop hums around me in that familiar rhythm I've learned to love: Finn's radio crackling through some old Johnny Cash song he's playing just to torture Holt, wrenches clanking against metal, the ceiling fan clicking overhead. Holt's under a Chevy—I can see his boots planted flat, hear him telling Finn something about a busted timing chain. Finn laughs, that bright sound that fills every corner and makes me smile without thinking about it.
My phone buzzes on the desk. Unknown number.
I stare at it for three rings, that weird instinct prickling the back of my neck. Could be a customer. Could be spam. Could be nothing. But something about it feels wrong, and I almost don't answer except my hand reaches for it anyway, muscle memory overriding common sense.
"Hello?"
"Scout."
Everything stops.
That voice. Sharp-edged and cold, carrying disappointment like a perfume she's worn my entire life. I haven't heard it in months but my body goes rigid instantly, some kind of muscle memory older than thought.
"Mom?"
It comes out barely above a whisper, and I hate how small I sound. Hate it.
"Evan came by the house." No greeting. No how are you, are you safe, are you okay. Just straight into it. "He's very upset, Scout."
My heart starts racing—just this instant acceleration from zero to sprinting, no warm-up, no warning. "What did you tell him?"
"What was I supposed to tell him? He's your fiancé—"
"He's not." The words crack coming out, jagged at the edges. "I left. I'm not marrying him."
"You embarrassed us." Her voice sharpens to a blade, that tone I know too well. "Embarrassed him. Running off like that—do you have any idea what that was like for us?"
