Holt watches him go, then looks at me. "Should I be worried about Gerald or the accordion?"
"Both. Definitely both."
"That's what people say right before something terrible happens."
"Or something necessary." I set the parts on his workbench. "We got everything you needed. Plus googly eyes, but those are Finn's department."
Dinner is leftover chili and Finn's running commentary about the hardware store chaos, complete with dramatic reenactment of the paint display disaster. Holt listens with his usual “cool guy” face, but I catch him almost-smiling at least five times. The loft feels smaller tonight, warm and full, like we've brought some of the road trip chaos home with us.
And then it's just me and Holt, Finn conveniently disappearing with Gerald and the accordion, and I'm standing in the kitchen area trying to figure out how to start this conversation.
"You've been sleeping on the floor."
He's drying dishes, doesn't even pause. "Finn talks too much"
"Finn talks exactly enough. The couch is wrecking your back."
"It's fine."
"Holt. You're sleeping on concrete. That's not fine. That's—" I stop, recalibrate. "I'm taking the floor tonight. You get the bed."
Now he stops. Turns to look at me, dish towel in hand. "No."
"It's not a request."
"Scout—"
"No. You've been in pain and not saying anything because what, because you gave me the bed weeks ago and now you're stuck with that decision? Because you're too stubborn to admit you need—" I break off, frustrated. "I'm sleeping on the floor if you don't share the bed. That's the deal."
"You're not sleeping on the floor."
"Then share the damn bed."
We're locked in some kind of standoff, him with his jaw set in that stubborn line, me with my arms crossed trying to look immovable.
And then, from outside, comes the most unholy sound I've ever heard—Finn, murdering the accordion, playing what might be "Mary Had a Little Lamb" if Mary's lamb was being exorcised.
Holt closes his eyes. "No."
"YES," Finn yells from outside. The accordion screeches in agreement.
"He's going to play every night until you agree," I say, trying not to laugh. "And he bought googly eyes. He's committed."
The accordion launches into a second verse, somehow worse than the first. Holt looks at me, that deadpan expression cracking just slightly at the edges.
"This was your plan."
"This was Finn's plan. I'm just the attractive messenger."
He almost smiles. Almost. Then sighs, long and defeated. "You take the left side. I snore."
"I'll survive."
"If I crowd you—"
"I'll kick you." I'm grinning now, victorious. "See? Compromise. Very mature."
"This isn't compromise, this is extortion."
