I'm staring at his mouth. The way his lips barely move when he talks, the way they're parted now like he's about to say something else. I can see his breath in cool night air, count seconds between inhales.
"I'm not running anymore," I say quietly, not sure if I'm talking about Evan or this moment or something else entirely. "From anything."
His hand comes up again. Almost touches my face. Fingertips a breath away from my cheek, close enough to feel heat but not contact. Every muscle screams at me to close that distance, to take what I want.
"Scout..." My name sounds like prayer and warning and plea.
"Yeah?"
He drops his hand. Pulls back. "You deserve better."
I blink. "What?"
"Better than this. Better than—" He gestures at himself, at the prosthetic, at all of him. "Me."
"That's not—"
"You just got out of something that hurt you. You're rebuilding. You don't need—" He stops. Starts again. "You deserve someone who's not broken. Someone who can give you what you need."
"And what if what I need is you?" My voice comes out sharper than I intended. "What if I'm sitting here telling you that I want this and you're deciding for me that I'm wrong?"
His mouth goes hard. "I'm not deciding for you—"
"Yes, you are. You're telling me what I deserve instead of listening to what I'm saying I want." I lean forward, not letting him retreat. "I drove twenty minutes into the desert at one thirty in the morning because I couldn't stop thinking about you. I helped you with your leg. I told you about Evan. I'm right here, Holt. I'm choosing this. I'm choosing you."
"You don't know what you're choosing."
"Don't do that. Don't tell me I don't know my own mind." My hands curl into fists. "Evan did that for years. Told me I didn't know what I wanted, what was good for me, what I deserved. And now you're doing the same thing."
He flinches like I hit him. "That's not—I'm trying to protect you."
"From what? From you?" I shake my head. "You're not him, Holt. You're nothing like him. And if you think I can't see the difference, then you're not paying attention."
"I'm your boss. Your landlord. You work for me, you live in my space—"
"So? I'm an adult. I can make my own choices about who I—" I stop, swallow hard. "You don't get to decide you're not good enough for me. That's my choice to make."
He's quiet for a long moment, jaw working. "Scout—"
"Do you want this?" I ask directly. "Do you want me?"
"That's not the point."
"It's exactly the point. Do you?"
Long pause. His eyes hold mine and I see everything there—want and fear and something that looks like pain. "Yeah," he says finally, voice rough. "I do."
"Then why are we sitting here arguing about it?"
"Because if I let myself have this—have you—and I mess it up..." He stops, jaw working. "I can't mess this up, Scout. You're too important."
"So you're choosing nothing instead? You're deciding for both of us that it's better to not even try?"
"I'm choosing to wait. Until you're sure. Until I'm—" He stops again.
"Until you're what?"
"Until I'm someone worth choosing."
