"Because I've seen the way he looks at you sometimes. Like he's apologizing for something he can't fix. Like he owes you and doesn't know how to pay it back." I shift closer, just an inch, enough that our shoulders touch. "Does he know you don't blame him?"
"I've told him." Jaw tightening again, muscle jumping. "Doesn't matter. He carries it anyway."
"How do you not blame him though? I mean—" I stop myself, rethink. "I'm not saying you should. I'm asking how. Because most people would."
"How could I?" He looks at me now, really looks, eyes dark and serious. "He didn't plant the damn thing. He was doing his job. We both were. It just happened."
"But it happened to you."
"It happened to both of us." He turns back to the canyon. "He lived with the guilt. I lived with the—" He gestures at his right leg. "We both ended up broken, just different ways."
"So you came here," I say. "To Coyote Bend."
"Couldn't go back to normal. Neither of us. Tried for a while—family, physical therapy, pretending we could pick up where we left off." He shakes his head. "Didn't work. Everything was too loud. Too many people. Too many questions."
"So you ran."
"So we drove." Almost-smile. "Found this place by accident. Pulled over for gas, saw the shop was for sale, Finn said something about fate and fresh starts. Next thing I knew we were signing papers."
"And then I showed up and ruined everything."
This time he does smile, small but real. "You definitely ruined something."
The air changes. Gets heavier, like pressure building before a storm. I'm aware of his breathing, the way he's holding himself—like pain's there and stubbornness's holding it back.
"Holt," I say carefully.
"Yeah."
"It's hurting you right now."
He goes absolutely still. "What?"
"Your leg. I can see it." I turn to face him fully, pulling one knee onto the hood. "You keep shifting your weight. Trying not to put pressure on your right side. You winced when you moved earlier."
"It's fine."
"Holt."
He sighs, long and heavy, rubbing a hand over his face. "Long days make it worse. Socket rubs raw when it swells."
"Can I help?"
"Scout—"
"I'm not pitying you. I'm asking if there's something I can do." I scoot closer, knee touching his thigh now. "Ice? Adjusting it? Elevation? Tell me what you need."
He looks at me for a long moment. His eyebrows lift slightly, like he's surprised or maybe relieved. "You want to see it?" he asks quietly. "Really see it?"
"Only if you want to show me."
The pause is weighted, full of consideration. Then he shifts, rolls up the leg of his jeans. The prosthetic catches starlight— beautiful in how purposeful it is. He unfastens straps and eases it off with a wince that makes my ribs squeeze.
The skin underneath is angry red. Swollen where socket meets flesh, raw where it's been rubbing all day. I've seen the prosthetic before—knew it existed, lived with the knowledge for weeks—but this is different. This is trust. This is him showing the part that hurts, the part he hides, the part nobody sees.
"Oh, Holt," I say, and I can't keep the ache out of my voice.
"It's not—"
