"Dance with me," Holt says after we've eaten, and it's not a question.
The band's shifted to something slow and haunting, the kind of song that makes you ache for things you can't name. He pulls me onto the makeshift dance floor, and this time when our bodies align it's different. Heavier. His hand spreads wide on my lower back, fingertips just brushing the curve of my ass, and I know he feels the small shiver that runs through me because his grip tightens.
"We've been sharing a bed for five nights," I blurt, because the beer makes me honest even if my head's mostly clear. "Five nights of—of you pressed against me when we wake up and pretending we don't notice, pretending your hand on my hip is accidental, pretending I don't push back into you on purpose—"
"I notice." His voice drops to something that scrapes against my spine. "I notice everything. The way you curl into me. The sounds you make. How you say my name when you're dreaming."
"Oh." My face burns. "That's—embarrassing—I mean, I don't—do I really—"
"Last night. 'Holt, please.' Clear as day."
"Oh god."
"Yeah." His hand slides up to tangle in my hair, tilting my head back so I have to meet his eyes. They're dark, focused, completely present with me. "Do you have any idea what that does to me? Lying there, hard as steel, while you beg for me in your sleep?"
The song ends but we don't let go. Another starts—something with a beat that should separate us—but we just sway, locked in this bubble while the town spins around us. Someone bumps into us, apologizes, but I barely hear it. All I can focus onis Holt's thumb stroking the nape of my neck and the way every nerve in my body has decided to pay attention all at once.
"Take her home before she melts," Finn calls from where he's now sitting in the dirt, having given up on standing. "Both of you. Go. Be happy. Make babies. Name one after me."
"Can you make it home?" Holt asks him.
"Imma sleep right here." Finn pats the ground affectionately. "Under the stars. Like a cowboy. A sexy, lonely cowboy. The last cowboy. The—"
"He's fine," I say, tugging Holt's hand. "Home."
Holt looks at me, and there's a question in his eyes that makes my pulse jump. Not from alcohol. From knowing exactly what I'm choosing.
"Yeah."
We leave Finn making dirt angels and walk through the crowd. Holt's limp is slightly more noticeable—not from drinking but from standing all evening—and I slide under his arm naturally, letting him lean just a little. He accepts it without comment, his hand dropping to my shoulder, thumb brushing my collarbone through the dress.
The night air is sharp and clear, cutting through the warm buzz in my blood, leaving me present. Aware. Every step away from the festival makes my skin feel tighter, like my body knows what's coming and is already preparing, already saying yes.
"Wait." He stops suddenly near the hardware store, pulling me into the shadow between buildings. He leans back against the wall, taking weight off his right leg. "Need to—"
"What?"
Instead of answering, he pulls me against him, my body fitting between his spread legs, and oh. Oh, this is what Holt Ward looks like when he stops fighting himself. His forehead drops to mine, our noses brushing, and I can smell the faint beer on his breath, but his eyes are clear. Present. Making a choice.
"Tell me to let go."
"Let go."
He doesn't.
"Scout." My name sounds wrecked in his mouth. "I can't—we shouldn't—"
"We're not that drunk," I say, and it's true. "This isn't the alcohol, Holt. This is us. This is nights of almosts and months of wanting and—"
"Fuck." His hips press forward for just a second, involuntary, and I feel him hard against my stomach. "Home. Now."
This time when we walk, it's with purpose. His hand grips mine, firm and sure, and the night air keeps clearing my head with each step. The familiar streets of Coyote Bend pass in a blur of porch lights and shadow. His prosthetic catches once on an uneven bit of sidewalk and I steady him automatically, my hand finding his waist, and he looks down at me with something so raw it makes my chest ache.
"We're alone," I say as we reach the shop, because my mouth needs to do something besides imagine what his would taste like.
"I know."
"No one to interrupt us."
