"Scout."
"Yeah?"
"I like when you talk."
I lift my head, look at him. He's staring straight ahead but his face is softer than usual, shoulders less rigid. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He shifts closer, just barely. "Fills the space right."
My pulse kicks up.
"Finn mentioned you guys don't talk about before. The military stuff."
Holt goes still. Watchful.
"He said you'd tell me when you were ready," I add quickly. "I'm not pushing. But if you want to talk, I'm here. And I promise I'm a really good listener when I try. Which I will try. Right now. Starting now." I mime zipping my lips.
The smile flickers across his face, there and gone. Then he's quiet so long I think he's shutting it down.
"Iraq," he says finally. Flat. Factual. "Four years. Me and Finn, same unit."
I wait. Press my lips together, make myself small and listening instead of filling every gap with noise.
"What was that like?" I ask softly when the pause stretches. "Being over there together?"
"Hot. Loud. Lot of waiting." He shifts, and I catch the wince he tries to hide. "Finn made it bearable. Always had something stupid to say."
"That tracks. Finn would joke through the apocalypse."
"Pretty much did."
I want to ask more—where, what, how—but I don't. I let him lead, let him take the time he needs.
"We were clearing a building," he says after another beat, still staring at all that darkness. "Standard sweep. Finn went in first." The muscle near his cheek jumps. "Triggered an IED."
My ribs squeeze but I don't make a sound. Don't gasp or reach or do anything people probably do. Just listen.
"I was right behind him." Voice so flat it's almost toneless, reporting instead of remembering. "Blast threw us both."
He stops. The silence stretches so long I think that's all I'm getting. Then:
"There was a field. Blood everywhere. Mine, mostly." His hands curl into fists on his thighs. "Thought I was dying. And Finn—" His voice cracks, just slightly. "Finn pulled me out. Dragged me. His hand was shredded but he wouldn't let go."
I don't move. Don't speak. Just let him get it out.
"The nightmares came later. After the surgeries. After I woke up and realized—" He gestures at his leg. "I didn't know if I wanted to survive. For a while there, I wasn't sure surviving was better."
"Holt," I whisper.
"Finn walked away with scars and a crooked finger." His lips flatten.. "I didn't."
"Medical discharge," I say quietly.
He nods.
"And Finn thinks it's his fault."
His head turns, surprised. "How'd you—"
