It actually happened. On week two. It lives rent-free in my nightmares.
They both laugh, that easy kind of giggle that only happens between women who’ve been in the trenches of academia long enough to know humility is part of the job description. We chat for a few more minutes before they’re swept back into the post-talk mingling vortex.
I take the moment to slip away, unnoticed.
Or at least as unnoticed as you can be when you’ve got the full attention of one named Wilkes.
Holden is leaning against the wall at the back of the auditorium, his dark clothes and sharper features letting him blend into the shadows. Arms crossed, ankles hooked—he might look standoffish to anyone else. But not to me. Not anymore.
His serious expression softens into something playful the moment I approach. He uncrosses his arms and slides one warm hand to my waist, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
“How many times?” I ask, melting into the smell of him—pine and rain, that same stubborn scent he still won’t explain. When I asked him last week if he bottled it somewhere under the labelMMC Eau de Mysterious Man Cologne, he just chuckled and walked away.
“Three,” he says, falling into step beside me as we push through the double doors and into the bright spill of sunlight across campus.
“Only?” I grin, bouncing once on my heels. I’ve been rehearsing my talk for days, and we all know—Maya especially, who took her role as Official Critic very seriously—that I have a bad habit of nervously laughing through any Latin term or complex phrase. Lingering trauma from being teased about my Canadian accent, probably. But three? That’s a serious upgrade from last week’s seven.
He smiles at me then—thatsmile—the one that makes heat pool low in my stomach and my steps catch just slightly. In the past five weeks, I’ve been pulled in every direction: the end of the semester, my thesis, now-mandatory surf lessons with Theo and the girls, and Dr. Kymbert’s research project. But my one constant? Holden. He’s done exactly what he promised—stayed by my side through every high and low, every snarky comment (of which there have been plenty). He waits for me after dives. Texts between classes. Shows up exactly when I need him.
“My girl is wicked smart,” he says, pulling me in by the hips, leaning until our noses touch. “We’ll work on your closing statement, though.”
I giggle, placing my hands on his chest for balance—even though I don’t need it. I know he’s got me.
“You’ve got a real talent for making everything sound like a peer review,” I murmur, my words brushing his lips.
He smirks. “Is that a compliment?”
I shake my head slowly, my curls grazing his jaw. “Not even a little.”
His smile deepens right before he closes the gap, kissing me softly—the kind of kiss I now know meansproud. Because, yes, we’ve also had our fair share of make-out sessions these past few weeks and, as the serious, composed scientist I absolutelyalwaysam, I’ve compiled a working hypothesis: Holden kisses how he feels.
Sometimes, it’s urgent. Desperate. Enough to make my knees buckle and my spine forget its purpose. Other times, like now, it’s gentle. Reverent. Full of all the things he hasn’t found the words for yet—but that I’m learning to read anyway.
I haven’t regretted giving our relationship a chance once—not even for a second. Maybe because the emotional labyrinth of the last few months finally collapsed, leaving behind something simple and honest. Or maybe—fine, definitely—because I find it wildly attractive when he defends us. What can I say? I’m just a girl.
Case in point: two weeks ago, I was on my way to his office when I heard Brad’s unmistakable nasal voice echoing down the hallway. He was talking to another guy, complaining about how I’d “probably slept my way into the Galápagos trip.” Which, first of all, I earned my spot on that trip, and second, Brad can’t spellplatypus. So.
I was just about to unleash a full verbal dissection when Holden stepped out of his office, the picture of calm superiority.
“O’Hara,” he said, not even blinking, “still blaming your inadequacy on others, I see?”
Then, to the guy next to him: “In case you’re tempted to entertain any of this nonsense, I suggest reading one of his lab reports. If you find a full paragraph without a syntax error or a completely fabricated fact, I’ll personally buy your textbooks next semester.”
Brad’s face drained. The other guy looked like he wished he were anywhere else. Case closed.
What gets me isn’t just that Holden shuts down the bullshit—it’s that he’s never once downplayed my work, and never once boosted it either. Since the moment our feelings came out of hiding, he’s been unwavering. No special treatment, no blurred lines. I still get the same disinterested scowls he throws at everyone in lecture. Still get my work returned bleeding with red-pen notes. Still get called out when I mislabel a diagram or forget to clean my station.
He keeps his hands to himself during office hours, even though I know he very much wants to let them roam.
And thank God, after this semester… I won’t be his student anymore.
I reluctantly separate myself from him—partly because Holden himself feels wildly inappropriate in daylight, all corded forearms, sun-warmed skin, now kiss-swollen lips, and partly because we have somewhere to be.
He frowns, just a little, but lets me go, catching my hand instead as we make our way to his truck. I climb in and immediately spot the usual suspects: his rolled-up charging cable, his black water bottle, and now—my blue one in the second cup holder.
I take a sip as he backs out of his parking spot, one arm slung behind my seat, the other steady on the wheel as he looks over his shoulder.
“You know you have a reversing camera, right?” I say, pointing to the screen with my water bottle.
