We reach the shop, start climbing the metal stairs together.
The landing is tiny—barely big enough for two people—and we're standing too close. Close enough that I catch his scent—grease and clean sweat and cedar. Close enough that I can see the way his chest rises and falls with each breath. Close enough that if I leaned forward just slightly—
I reach for my keys. My hands shake.
They slip from my fingers.
We both reach down at the same time.
Our hands collide.
His fingers brush mine—calloused and warm and solid—and sensation shoots up my arm. Heat that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with contact.
We both freeze.
Eye contact in the dark, too close, his hand still touching mine where we're both reaching for the keys. The air gets heavy. Thick with something that's been building for days.
His fingers curl slightly against mine. Not grabbing. Not pulling away. There. Touching. Connected.
I can't breathe. My heart's hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my ears, in every point of contact between us. His eyes are dark in the dim light, pupils blown wide, and he's looking at me like—
His mouth tenses. I watch it happen—watch him fight whatever he's feeling, remind himself of boundaries and professionalism and all the reasons he shouldn't be looking at me like that. But he doesn't pull away. Doesn't move. Stays there, hand against mine, both of us suspended.
My breath catches audibly. The sound breaks whatever spell we're under.
He pulls back. Fast but not violent. Creates space between us, picks up my keys in one smooth motion, hands them to me without our fingers touching this time.
"Goodnight, Scout." His voice is rougher than usual. Strained.
"Goodnight, Holt."
He unlocks the door and holds it open. I slip past him and that familiar brush of proximity feels different now. Electric. Significant. Like every time we're close is building toward something neither of us is ready to name.
Inside, the loft feels smaller. The air feels thinner. I'm hyperaware of every sound—his footsteps behind me, the door closing, the lock clicking into place.
He goes to the couch. Picks up his book. The picture of normalcy except his hands are tense on the cover and he's not actually looking at the pages.
I head for the bedroom. Stop in the doorway. Turn back.
"Holt?"
He meets my eyes.
"You're important. To me. I wouldn't have stayed without you."
His expression does something complicated—softens and tightens at the same time, like I've said something that matters but hurts in a good way. For a second he looks younger, less guarded, more human.
Then it's gone.
"Get some sleep, Scout."
"Yeah. Okay."
Chapter 6
I'm dying. Actively, measurably dying.
The iced coffee in front of me has given up—condensation pooling around the base and honestly? I respect it. The surrender. The acceptance that fighting Arizona in July is pointless and we're all just slowly liquifying together. I watch a bead of water slide down the cup, taking its sweet time, and I'm jealous of water for having the option to evaporate because at least that's an exit strategy.
