"You should tell him that more often."
"I do. He doesn't listen."
"Wonder where he learned that from."
Another almost-laugh. I can hear the smile in it. "You're impossible."
"You say that like it's new information."
My hand is on top of the covers, fingers curled against the sheet. And maybe it's the dark, or the fact that we survived today's chaos together, or the weight of "not yet" feeling less like a barrier and more like a promise, but I feel Holt's hand find mine. His palm is warm and callused from years of wrenches and engine parts, heavy enough that I feel the weight of it like an anchor. His fingers wrap around my palm, and I'm staring at the ceiling fan's shadow because if I look at him right now I might say something that ruins this.
I don't move except to curl my fingers back around his, holding on like he's the only steady thing in a spinning room.
"Goodnight, Scout."
"Goodnight, Holt."
From outside, the accordion starts up again—one final victory song that sounds like Gerald's soul leaving his ceramic body. We both start laughing, hands still clasped between us in the dark, and that's how I fall asleep. Holding onto Holt Ward while Finn Weller murders polka music in the desert night.
Chapter 9
His dick.
That's my first conscious thought. Not 'where am I' or 'what time is it' but 'holy shit that's Holt's cock' because it's pressed against my lower back and there is zero ambiguity about what I'm feeling right now.
The second thing I register is his hand—palm flat across my stomach, fingers splayed wide. His chest is flush against my back, his leg hooked over mine, and we definitely did not fall asleep like this.
We moved. Found each other in the dark. Tangled ourselves together like bodies that have been doing this for years instead of hours.
I should move. Extract myself before this gets weird. Before he wakes up and realizes his dick has opinions about our sleeping arrangements.
Except I'm so comfortable. Tangled up in him, his weight anchoring me, and I don't want to move. I want to stay here. I want to press back and find out what happens if—
His breathing changes.
Oh fuck.
I feel the exact moment awareness hits him. Every muscle goes tense against me. The slight hitch in his breath when he realizes where his hand is, where I am, what's currently pressed against my spine.
Neither of us moves.
Then he carefully—so carefully—extracts himself. Pulls his arm back, shifts away, puts space between us like he's defusing a bomb.
"Morning," he says, voice sleep-rough and strained.
"Morning." I still don't turn around because if I look at him right now I might combust. "So that happened."
"Yeah."
"Just so we're clear, I'm a sleep cuddler. It's a condition. Very serious. Doctors are baffled."
His laugh is quiet, a little strangled. "Noted."
"And you're a—" I gesture vaguely at the space where we were just tangled together. "—apparently also a cuddler. Who knew."
"Apparently." He sits up and I hear him reach for his prosthetic. "I should—bathroom."
"Yeah. Good. Bathroom sounds good."
