He's the first one to see me. Straightens up, wipes his hands on his jeans, and grins. "You lost or looking?"
He's maybe thirty, sun-browned and lean, with light brown hair that's never met a comb it liked and gray-green eyes that're sharp despite the easy smile. There's scarring on his left hand, faint but visible, and he moves with an ease that says he's comfortable with strangers.
"Looking," I say. "I heard—someone said there might be space? Someone named Holt Ward? I don't know if that's you or if there's multiple people here but I was told to ask for Holt Ward specifically and I'm realizing now that just showing up and asking about someone's personal living space is probably deeply weird but my car died and I'm kind of desperate and also possibly experiencing heat stroke—"
His grin falters. Just a little. "Uh. Yeah. He's here."
"Oh good. Great. Can I talk to him? Unless—is this a bad time? It feels like maybe a bad time. You're working. I'm interrupting work. Should I come back? When do you close? Or do I just—"
"You can try." He gestures toward the back of the garage, clearly entertained. "Holt! Got a visitor!"
There's a pause. Then a voice—low, flat, the kind that doesn't waste words—says, "Busy."
"She's asking about your place," the guy calls back, and now his grin's back.
Another pause. Longer this time. Then I hear the scrape of metal, the sound of someone standing, and a man emerges from behind the truck.
Tall. That's the first thing I notice. At least six-three, broad-shouldered with the kind of build that says he's strong from actual work, not from counting reps in a gym. There's muscle there—real, functional muscle in his arms and chest—but also a softness around the edges, the kind that comes from beer after long days and not particularly caring about definition. His stomach isn't flat, exactly, but it's solid in a way that makes him look more real than the men in magazines, like he could lift an engine block without breaking a sweat but also wouldn't say no to a second burger. And he's shirtless, because of course he is, because apparently the universe decided I needed one more thing to deal with today. There's a rag thrown over his shoulder, and he's covered in tattoos—both arms, black and gray, wolves and clockwork and symbols I can't read from here—ink that crawls up one side of his neck and disappears into short dark hair damp with sweat. He's got a neat beard, close-cropped and dark, and eyes so blue they're almost unnerving—cold water and deep oceans and things that don't give anything away.
"Jesus. Okay." The words come out before I can stop them. "You look like the centerfold in whatever magazine straight women hide under their mattresses. I can't—I'm having a crisis here and you're just standing there looking like that. This is unfair. This feels targeted. Did someone warn you I was coming? Did you plan this?"
The other guy makes a choking sound that might be a laugh. Holt just stares at me—flat, unimpressed, like I'm a particularly annoying mosquito he's considering swatting.
He doesn't smile. Doesn't say anything. Just looks at me with the kind of assessment that makes me feel seen—every bad decision I've made in the past month laid bare.
"Hi," I say, because someone has to say something and it's always going to be me. "I'm—my name's Scout. Scout Adler. Which is a weird name, I know, my parents were very into being outdoorsy which is ironic because I'm currently dying in the desert but that's—anyway. I heard you might have space available? Like, a room? For rent? I can pay rent. Well, I can eventually pay rent. I have some money. Not a lot of money but some money and I'm willing to work for the rest and I just need somewhere to stay for a few weeks while I figure things out and I promise I won't be trouble even though I'm aware that showing up and rambling at a stranger makes me seem like exactly the kind of trouble you don't want but I'm actually very quiet usually. Well, not quiet. I talk a lot. But I'm contained trouble. Manageable trouble. The kind of trouble that pays rent on time and doesn't break things and—"
"No." Flat. Final.
I blink. "Oh. I thought—Nadine said—"
"No," he repeats, and he's already turning back to the truck, conversation over.
"Wait," I say, and I hate how desperate I sound but I'm too tired to care. "I can pay. I just need a place for a little while. I won't be any trouble, I promise, I just—my car died about half a mile outside town and I walked here and I'm—I don't have anywhere else to go and I know that's not your problem but I'm asking anyway because apparently I have no pride left and I'm okay with that—"
He doesn't turn around. "No."
"Holt," the other guy says, and there's something cautious in his voice now. "Come on, man."
"Finn." One word. A warning.
Finn—apparently that's his name—holds up his hands in surrender, but he's looking at me with something close to sympathy. "Sorry," he says quietly. "He's... particular."
"Right," I say, throat tight. "Okay. Sorry to bother you."
I turn to leave, duffel sliding off my shoulder, box awkward in my arms, and I make it exactly three steps before everything hits at once.
The dead car. The money I don't have. The fact that I left everything behind and ended up here, in the middle of nowhere, getting rejected by a man who won't even look at me.
I walk outside into the heat and it's too much—all of it, everything, the sun and the dust and the fact that I'm so fucking tired and I have nowhere to go. I make it to the curb and just... sit. Drop everything beside me. Put my head in my hands.
And I cry.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet, shaking, trying to hold it together and failing completely because I've been holding it together for three days straight and I'm done. I'm so done.
I hear footsteps. Of course. Can't even have a breakdown in private.
"Hey." Finn's voice, cautious. "You okay?"
