I look at him fast. "What?"
"The IED. I triggered it. We were clearing a building and I missed the tripwire." He says it like he's reading off a menu, but his knuckles are white on the steering wheel. "Walked right over it like a fucking amateur. Holt was feet behind me. He got the blast. I got—" He holds up his left hand, the one with the scars and the crooked finger. "This. Barely a scratch. Doesn't exactly seem fair."
"Finn—"
"Best part is I don't even remember it. Brain just deleted the file. Holt remembers everything and I got nothing." He drags a hand through his hair. "Anyway. Point is, he told you. That means something."
I don't know what to say so I just sit there, slushie sweating in my hands, watching him wrestle with guilt that's clearly been eating at him for years. And because I'm an idiot with no self-preservation, I open my mouth.
"We almost kissed."
Finn's head whips toward me so fast I'm worried about whiplash. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Eyes on the road!"
He corrects course, but he's grinning now, that manic Finn grin that means he's about to become everyone's problem. "You almost kissed. At the canyon. After he trauma-dumped his entire soul on you. Of course you did. That's the most Holt thing I've ever heard—drop the heavy shit then immediately blue-ball himself."
"He said 'not yet.'" I'm staring at the highway stretching ahead, remembering the way Holt's voice went rough in the dark. "And that I deserve better. Someone not broken."
The grin drops off Finn's face. "Fuck. He said that?"
"Yeah."
"That idiot." Finn says it with so much affection it hurts. "That self-sacrificing, noble, absolutely idiotic—" He breaks off, jaw working. "He's not broken. He's just—he thinks he is. That's different."
"I know that."
"But he doesn't." Finn looks at me, serious in a way he almost never is. "He thinks the leg, the nightmares, all of it—he thinks it makes him less. Makes him not good enough. And now he's doing the whole 'I need to be sure you're sure' thing because god forbid Holt Ward take something for himself without checking every angle first."
"Please don't."
"Too late, already composing the speech." He takes another pull of his nightmare slushie. "But okay, real talk—how do you feel about him?"
And there it is. The actual question underneath all of Finn's chaos. I could deflect, could make a joke, but he just told me about triggering the IED that took Holt's leg so I figure I owe him honesty.
"I think I'm falling for him. Like actually falling, not just—I don't know, not just grateful he gave me a place to stay or attracted to the whole stoic mechanic thing. I mean I am attracted to that, obviously, have you seen him? But it's more. It's the way he listens when I ramble. The way he doesn't need me to be anything except exactly this. The way he looks at me like I'm not too much or too loud or too broken. Like I'm just—" I stop, realizing I'm doing the thing where I word-vomit my feelings all over someone. "Right."
"Like you're just right," Finn finishes, soft. "Yeah. That's Holt. He's got this thing where he sees people exactly as they are and doesn't need them to be anything else. It's annoying as shit when you're trying to hide from yourself."
"Sounds like you're speaking from experience."
"Oh, I've got a decade of experience with Holt Ward seeing straight through my bullshit. It's exhausting. Highly recommend." He grins, but it's gentler now. "He's not an easy person to love. I say that with full authority as someone who's loved him since we were fifteen and stupid. He's got walls made of concrete and trauma and he thinks he has to hold the whole world up by himself. But if you can get past that—if he lets you past that—he's the best person I know."
"I don't know if he'll let me."
"He already has, Scout. He told you about the blast. He showed you his scars. He said 'not yet,' not 'never.' That's him keeping a promise he made to himself that he won't take until he's sure you want to give. It's infuriating and honorable and so completely Holt I could scream." He pauses. "Also he's been sleeping on the concrete floor in the shop because the couch is killing his back but he won't take the bed from you."
I nearly drop my slushie. "He what?"
"Yeah. Found him last week just passed out on the floor by the lift like some kind of tragic Victorian orphan. His back is fucked, Scout. The prosthetic throws his whole spine out of alignment and sleeping on that shitty couch makes it worse but he won't say anything because god forbid Holt Ward admit he's in pain or needs something."
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
"Welcome to loving Holt Ward. Population: us idiots." He shoots me a look that's half mischief, half challenge. "You could do something about it."
"Like what?"
"Make him share the bed. Weaponize his own protective instincts against him. Tell him you'll sleep on the floor if he doesn't agree to split the bed. He'll cave immediately because he physically cannot let you be uncomfortable."
