"Even with the bucket incident? Because I feel like the bucket incident should disqualify me from 'fine.' The bucket incident was a disaster. A catastrophe. The bucket incident will probably go down in shop history as the worst thing that's ever happened."
His lips curve—just barely, just enough that I know I'm not imagining it. "Especially the bucket incident. Kept Finn entertained all afternoon. He's still finding bolts."
I laugh, exhausted but real. The sound fills the space, echoes in the small loft, and his face changes again—goes softer, stays longer, something warm in his eyes.
"Could be worse," I say.
"Could be better. I could be graceful. Competent. The kind of person who doesn't declare war on basic office supplies and lose."
"Where's the fun in that?"
I blink at him. Did Holt Ward just make a joke? An actual joke? This feels significant. This feels like progress. "Did you just—"
He's already moving toward the couch, picking up his book from the side table, settling into what passes for his routine now. "Get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be long."
"Great. Can't wait. Love long days in hell's armpit." I push myself up, every muscle protesting the movement. "Oh—wait. I made you lunch. For tomorrow. It's in the fridge."
He stops. Goes completely still. Then turns to look at me, and there's a change in his eyes—surprise, definitely surprise, maybe relief or gratitude or something else he won't name. Something vulnerable that he's trying to hide but not quite managing.
"You didn't have to do that," he says quietly, and his voice has gone rougher.
"I know. But you didn't have to either, and you did anyway." I hold his gaze, trying to make him understand that this matters, that I see what he did. "So. Yeah. Turkey and cheese. I didn't know what you like, so I just made what you made for me. Seemed fair. Reciprocal. I can do reciprocity. That's a thing I can do."
He looks at me for a long moment. The silence stretches, weighted with things neither of us is ready to say out loud. Then he nods slowly. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." The words come out softer than I mean them to.
"Goodnight, Scout."
"Goodnight, Holt."
I retreat to the bedroom, leaving the door cracked—wider than last night, wider than I probably should. The routine is becoming familiar now. Him on that too-small couch, me in his bed, both of us existing in this strange shared space where the boundaries keep shifting without either of us acknowledging it out loud.
I hear him settle. The springs protest—they always do—and he adjusts once, twice, then goes still. Accepting. Resigned.
His breathing evens out. I can hear pages turning as he reads that thriller with the cracked spine, the soft rustle of paper that's becoming part of my nights here. Part of what home sounds like.
This is becoming normal. The sound of him in the next room. The rhythm of shared space and careful boundaries and small kindnesses that mean more than they should. Coffee in the morning, lunch in a paper bag with my name written careful, water tossed across a garage because he was paying attention.
I'm not home yet. I don't know if I ever will be. Don't know if I deserve to call this home when I took his bedroomand his bed and apparently his peace of mind about whether I'm hydrated.
But lying here in his bed, listening to him breathe in the room beyond, I think maybe this could be it. Maybe Coyote Bend isn't where my car died. Maybe it's where I finally stop running. Where I finally let myself stay.
My dead car is still sitting outside the shop, unfixed and expensive to repair, but somehow that doesn't scare me anymore. I've got time. I've got a job. I've got a place to stay with a man who catches flying mugs without looking and makes sandwiches like they matter and tracks whether I'm drinking water like it's his job.
I fall asleep to the sound of pages turning, thinking about turkey sandwiches and single nods of approval and the way his voice sounded when he said "I'm paying attention."
Present tense. Ongoing. Still happening.
It meant something. It means something.
I matter.
Maybe I might just survive this after all.
Chapter 3
I'm elbow-deep in the filing cabinet from hell when Finn's voice cuts through the garage.
