"—and THAT'S why Scout and Holt need to stop being cowards and just—"
The tequila hits the back of my throat mid-swallow as Finn's voice carries across the entire festival, and I choke, actually choke, which means Holt has to pound on my back while I try not to die in front of the entire population of Coyote Bend.
"Jesus, Finn." I gasp between coughs, shoving the shot glass back at him. "Maybe don't scream about our theoretical sex life while I'm actively drinking?"
"Nothing theoretical about it." Finn's approximately seven drinks past subtlety, weaving on his feet like the wind might knock him over. "The sexual tension is so thick in that shop I need a machete to get to the supply closet. A MACHETE, Scout."
Holt's hand is still on my back, steadying me, and the warmth of it through my sundress makes me lose track of what I was protesting about. This green sundress that I definitely didn't pick because last week Finn mentioned—completelyunprompted, the traitor—that Holt said something about how I look like summer in green.
"You're staring," I tell Holt, and the words come out clear enough, though there's warmth in my blood from the two—maybe three—drinks I've had over the last two hours. Enough to make me brave. Not enough to make me stupid. Well, not too stupid.
"You're in my arms. Where else would I look?"
The string lights glow soft above us, and Sunny's been pouring drinks all night but I switched to beer an hour ago, nursing it slow because the way Holt's thumb is stroking my hip requires a clear head to properly appreciate. The desert festival sprawls around us—bonfires crackling against the cooling night, the local band butchering Fleetwood Mac, kids running wild with sparklers while their parents drink warm beer and pretend they're not watching us pretend we're not about to combust.
I feel him shift his weight, a subtle adjustment from his right leg to his left, the prosthetic probably aching after standing this long. Without thinking, I press closer, taking some of his weight, and his breath catches against my hair.
"Finally," Maeve calls from her lawn chair throne, raising her Solo cup in our direction. "I was starting to think you two were immune to chemistry."
Finn stumbles over with three more glasses of something amber. "SHOTS! For my—my two favorite sexually frustrated idiots who are FINALLY—"
"Finn." Holt's warning is steady, though I can see the warmth in his eyes from the couple beers he's had. Not drunk, just loosened at the edges, which on Holt Ward is like seeing a miracle.
"FINALLY DOING SOMETHING ABOUT IT." Finn finishes at maximum volume. "Martinez owes me fifty bucks. FIFTY. Do you know how much beer that is?"
"Too much for you, apparently," I say, waving off the shot he's trying to hand me. "I'm good. Still working on this." I hold up my half-empty beer.
"Lightweight," Finn accuses, then downs all three shots himself because he has the self-preservation instincts of a moth near a bug zapper.
Holt's grip on my waist tightens, his thumb finding that spot where my dress gaps at the hip, and the small touch combined with the pleasant buzz in my blood makes me brave. Not sloppy drunk brave. Just brave enough to lean into him fully, to let the whole town see me choosing this.
"Need to sit for a second," he mutters, and I realize he's been standing too long, the combination of the beer buzz and the prosthetic making him want to rest.
"Come on." I guide him to one of the picnic tables, and he drops onto the bench with visible relief. I slide in next to him, but he immediately pulls me into his lap, like even six inches is too much distance.
"Water," he says, reaching for the bottles someone left on the table. "Both of us."
"Buzzkill," I tease, but I take the bottle gratefully. The cold water clears some of the haze, grounds me back in my body. We've been here three hours already, and I've been careful—enough alcohol to feel warm and loose, not enough to lose myself.
"Scout." The way he says my name lately, careful and reverent. His thumb traces circles on my hip through the thin cotton.
"We should get some food," I say, but my hands are already in his hair, fingers playing with the short strands at his nape.
"We should." He doesn't move either. If anything, he pulls me closer, until I can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, steady and sure. "Christ, Scout."
"Get a room!" Tommy Martinez yells from somewhere near the beer tent, and then Linda Reeves materializes with her phone like the chaos agent she is.
"Are you two together or not?" She demands, words only slightly fuzzy at the edges. Everyone's been drinking tonight, but most of us have switched to beer, pacing ourselves. "Because I've got money riding on this week and rent's due."
Before I can fumble through our usual denial—which gets harder every day when we wake up tangled and pretend it's nothing—Holt's arm slides fully around me. "We're happy."
Not yes, not no, but something that makes Linda crow with delight and me forget what breathing is for. Holt Ward, who barely speaks in complete sentences, just made a public... something. Declaration? Claim? I don't know but my whole body goes warm and my brain goes quiet which never happens, like his words just shut down all my defense systems at once.
"I need air," I manage, though the desert night has plenty of it.
"Food first," Holt insists, helping me off his lap and standing carefully. I catch how he tests his weight on the prosthetic before fully committing, a gesture so automatic he probably doesn't realize he does it.
We eat standing close together at the taco truck, sharing loaded nachos that ground me back in my body. The cheese and salsa cut through the pleasant buzz, leaving me warm but clear-headed. Finn appears periodically to announce our sexual tension to anyone who'll listen, but he's the only one truly wasted. The rest of us learned years ago to pace ourselves at the festival—it's a marathon, not a sprint.
