"Finn's playing a third verse. Still want to argue?"
He doesn't. Just shakes his head, hangs up the dish towel, and surrenders with as much dignity as a man can while being serenaded by a weaponized accordion. I lean out the window.
"Stand down, Weller. Mission accomplished."
"THAT'S WHAT I LIKE TO HEAR." The accordion plays what might be a victory song. Or a death rattle. Hard to say. "Goodnight, lovers. Remember—Gerald's watching."
I look at Holt. He looks at the ceiling like he's asking for divine intervention.
"Your friends are insane," he says.
"You picked them."
"Regret that now."
But he's almost-smiling when he says it, and that counts for something.
Later, after I've changed into sleep shorts and a tank top, after Holt's done his nightly routine and I've very deliberately not watched him take off his prosthetic because that feels too intimate somehow, we're both standing on opposite sides of the bed.
"I can build a pillow wall," I offer.
"Don't need a pillow wall."
"I'm a thrasher. Might kick you in my sleep."
"I'll survive."
"If you're uncomfortable—"
"Scout." He waits until I look at him. "Just get in the damn bed."
So I do. Slip under the covers on the left side like he said, trying to take up minimal space. He's careful getting in on the right, moving slow, and I realize he's trying not to jostle me. Like I'm something fragile instead of the chaos gremlin who spent today covered in paint dust causing hardware store mayhem.
The bed is small enough that I can feel the heat of him even though we're not touching. Can hear his breathing in the dark, steady and even. The ceiling fan clicks overhead, shadows spinning lazy circles across the ceiling. Somewhere outside a dog barks and the night settles around us like a blanket.
"Thank you," he says, quiet.
"No thanking. Those are the rules."
"Whose rules?"
"Mine. Just made them up."
I feel more than hear his laugh, just a small exhale. "You can't just make up rules."
"I'm currently in your bed forcing you to sleep like a human instead of a martyr. I can definitely make up rules."
"Fair point."
Silence, comfortable and warm. I should probably try to sleep but my brain is still running at highway speed, full of Finn's words and hardware store chaos and the feeling of Holt this close without the weight of "not yet" between us.
"Finn told me about the IED. His version." I say it to the dark, to the space between us. "About feeling guilty."
"He shouldn't."
"He does anyway. Because he loves you and thinks he broke you."
"He didn't break me." Holt's voice is rough, certain. "He saved me. Everything after was just—consequences. But I'm here because of him."
