"What helps?" I cut him off before he can downplay it.
He hesitates, jaw working. "The straps. Too tight. Makes it worse when it swells but I have to keep them tight or it shifts."
"Show me how to adjust them."
He does. Hands moving slow, loosening one strap then another, demonstrating pressure points. I watch carefully, memorizing movements, order, which straps do what.
"Okay," I say. "Let me try."
I take it from him, feel the weight—heavier than expected, warm from his body. My fingers find the first strap and I work it loose, watching his face.
"Like this?"
"Yeah. Little more on that side."
I adjust, fingers brushing skin where the socket sits. He inhales sharp and I freeze. "Did I hurt you?"
"No." Voice rough. Strained. "Just—no one's ever—"
"What?"
He doesn't finish. Just watches me work, breathing careful and controlled like he's keeping himself in check. I loosen the next strap, test tension, glance up. "Better?"
"Yeah."
I work through each one, taking my time, making sure it's right. Hands steady even though my pulse is hammering, even though I'm hyperaware of every contact point—my knee against his thigh, my fingers on his skin, warmth of him in cool night air.
"No one's ever helped," he says finally, barely above a whisper. "Without making it a thing."
I look up. "It's not a thing. It's just you."
His mouth twitches, eyes going soft at the edges. He reaches out like he's going to touch my face, hand coming up, fingers almost brushing my cheek—then stops. Hovers between us for two heartbeats before dropping.
I sit back, still holding the prosthetic, giving space. "My turn," I say, trying to keep my voice light even though I have to swallow twice. "Fair's fair. You told me yours."
"Scout—"
"His name was Evan. We were together for years. Engaged for six months."
Holt's jaw tightens but he stays silent.
"He was... careful," I continue, words tasting bitter. "Made everything seem like it was for my own good. I was too loud, too messy, too much. He'd say it with a smile, like he was helping me be better."
"You're not too much."
"Everyone has flaws, Holt. Mine are just louder than most people's." I wrap my arms around my knees, pull them closer to my chest. "It got worse after we got engaged. He wanted me smaller. Quieter. More manageable. Like I was a project he was fixing. And I just... let him. Believed him when he said thebruises were affection, that I was lucky someone put up with me."
"Scout."
"I left days before the wedding. Packed a bag, drove until my car started making that rattling sound, saw the sign for Coyote Bend, and thought 'Well, this is as good a place as any to fall apart.'" I look at him. "I ended up here. Stayed because it felt like the first place I could breathe in years. Because you gave me a job when you had no reason to. Because Finn made me laugh. Because this place—" My voice catches. "This place felt like maybe I could be myself again. The loud, messy, too-much version Evan spent years trying to sand down."
Absolute silence. Even crickets seem to have stopped.
"You're not small," Holt says finally. Rough. Fierce. Certain. "You fill every room you're in."
I can't quite get a full breath. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He shifts closer, and now we're almost touching, knee to knee, close enough to see lighter blue flecks in his eyes. "You're exactly right. The way you are."
