"Shower's yours whenever. Laundry's downstairs—let me know before you run a load. Keys—" He pulls out a spare from somewhere, sets it on the table. Small and brass and ordinary except it's not ordinary at all. "Don't lose it."
"I won't." I stare at the key. Such a small thing. Such a huge thing. Access. Trust. The physical representation of him saying "you can stay." My throat goes tight and I need to say something, need to acknowledge this, need to—"Holt, I—"
"If you're about to thank me again, don't."
"I was going to say I'll try not to be a disaster," I lie, which we both know is a lie because I'm definitely going to be a disaster. "But also, thank you. For the coffee. And the key.And giving me your bedroom when you could've just pointed me toward a motel or told me to figure it out myself or—"
"Scout."
"Right. Stopping now." I drink. He drinks. The silence stretches and I'm trying so hard not to fill it, trying to let it exist without commentary, trying to be the kind of person who can sit in quiet without needing to narrate their own existence. I last approximately fifteen seconds. "The shop's open today?"
"Saturdays are work days."
"Do you want me to come down? Help? I don't start until Monday but I could—I mean if you need someone to answer phones or file things or just exist in the general vicinity being useful—"
"Take the weekend." Not unkind. "Settle in."
He drains his mug, rinses it in the sink, grabs a shirt from the duffel by the couch—the same duffel that should be in the bedroom, that probably held everything he owned before he moved it all out here for me—and pulls it on. The fabric stretches across his shoulders and I'm definitely not staring at the way it fits. Definitely not.
He heads for the door without looking back. No goodbye. Just the door closing, footsteps echoing down the metal stairs, fading into the hum of the shop below.
I sit there with my coffee, thinking: I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing here. But I'm going to try really hard not to screw it up.
The weekend passes in this weird cohabitation dance where we're both hyperaware of each other and trying to pretend we're not. Saturday I explore the loft—takes me fifteen minutes because it's not big—and unpack my duffel. Put my clothes in the dresser he cleared out, which still smells like him. Hang my two dresses in the closet. Arrange my books on the small shelf. Makethe space mine while trying not to think about how it was his first.
I hear the shop running below all day. The clang of metal, Finn's voice carrying up through the floor, music that's probably older than both of them. I think about going down but he said to take the weekend. So I stay up here, reorganizing things that don't need reorganizing, taking a shower in the bathroom that's so small my elbows hit both walls, trying to figure out what my life is now.
Saturday night I make spaghetti. When Holt comes up around sunset, sweaty and streaked with grease, I've got two plates ready. He stops in the doorway. Something changes in his face—goes softer for half a second, surprise mixed with something else—before his walls snap back up.
"You didn't have to do that," he says.
"I made extra. It's stupid to eat alone when we're both here." I hand him a plate and our fingers brush. His hands are rough, scarred, warm, and covered in oil he hasn't washed off yet. "Consider it rent. In pasta form."
He sits. We eat in silence that should be awkward but isn't. The spaghetti's nothing special—jar sauce, overcooked noodles—but he eats all of it. When I wash dishes, he dries—doesn't ask, doesn't offer, just picks up the towel and starts. Our elbows bump twice in the cramped space and he doesn't pull away, just shifts slightly to give me room.
That night I lie in bed listening to him settle onto the couch. The springs protest—loud, sharp, angry metal sounds. He shifts. The frame creaks like it's being murdered. He adjusts again and I hear the frustrated exhale when he realizes there's no position that works, no way to make six-foot-three fit comfortably on five feet of furniture designed for someone half his size.
This is my fault. He's in pain because of me.
The guilt sits heavy in my chest and I think: I should offer to switch. Should insist he take his bed back. Should sleep on that torture device myself since I'm the reason he's suffering. But I don't know how to offer without making it weird, without him refusing, without both of us stuck in this situation neither of us knows how to navigate.
I fall asleep listening to him shift, thinking: I owe him more than pasta.
Sunday I venture down to the shop. Finn lights up when he sees me like I'm exactly what he's been waiting for.
"Gremlin! You've emerged!"
"Gremlin?" I stop, hands on my hips, trying to look offended even though I'm kind of delighted. "Did you just call me Gremlin?"
"Yep. It fits. You're small, chaotic, and you live in the walls now."
"I'm five-three, which is a perfectly normal height, and I don't live in the walls. I live in the loft. There's a difference. Walls would imply I'm feral. The loft implies I pay rent. Very different situations."
"Details." He grins. "You settling in okay? Holt being his usual ray of sunshine?"
I glance at Holt. He's under a hood, pretending not to listen, but his hands have gone still on whatever he's working on. Completely still. Listening. Definitely listening. "He's been really nice."
"Don't let him hear you say that. He's got a reputation to maintain." Finn stage-whispers, loud enough that everyone can hear, "He's a giant softie. Just don't tell him I told you."
