“Are you willing to reconsider my offer?”
His… what? I look up, eyes a little wider than dignity prefers. “Uh?”
“My offer to help you with whatever it is you came to ask.”
“Oh.” So I’m about to play with voltage—agree to more minutes in his orbit—because the alternative is letting a thousand questions gnaw through my frontal lobe. “Um, I don’t want to bother you.”
“I’m your TA.” From that extra foot he has on me, his expression goes uncompromising.
“Okay. Sure.” Because he saved my scone and, inconveniently, my face—and because I’m not above admitting he might actually help, even if I still plan to take it to Dr. Kymbert later.
He heads for the far end of the corridor, where the plaques shift from bronze to silver. I’m obvious about staring.
“Bronze is for tenure, but silver is for the rest of us,” he says, tapping the plate where he stops.HOLDEN WILKES, MSc.
My jaw does a small, undignified drop. “You have a plate with your name on it? Like… this is your official office?”
He gives me a look like I’ve sprouted a second head. “Yes?” He steps one door over and taps the neighbor’s placard. “So does he, as a marine engineer.”THEO ANDERSON, MSc, in matching silver.
“Do all TAs have them?”
“No.” He returns to his door, key already in hand. “Theo and I put in more hours than most. We have since our master’s.”
The lock turns. He walks in and leaves the door open for me. I’m still trying to assimilate the information he just gave me when I step into the room.
It’s not big, but it’s… disarmingly warm. A solid wood desk sits center; papers in disciplined stacks along the front edge, a monitor at the right corner, a globe at the left with the Pacific worn shiny under a thumb. The chair opposite is wood with a blue-green cushion that looks inexplicably soft. One wall is floor-to-ceiling shelves, spines running from fisheries to oceanography to zoology; the other is maps: Coriolis winds, major currents, last year’s El Niño hot spots pinned with neat tacks. The room smells faintly of paper and pine and whatever coffee he drinks that’sprobably too strong for me.
I don’t know how to explain it except to say: this space is completely, infuriatingly him—ordered and exact, but with just enough softness to be dangerous.
Oblivious to nothing, it seems, he catches me inventorying the shelves. A full row of marine biology texts—annotated, dog-eared, expensive. Better than mine by several orders of magnitude.
“I told you I’m well equipped to help you,” he says, without looking up.
I hate that he might be right, and I hate even more that he sounds pleased about it. “Why do you have so much marine biology knowledge if you’re an oceanographer?”
“I started my master’s in marine biology,” he replies, flicking his laptop open. “Switched directions about halfway through.”
“Why?”
He wakes the computer, leans back, arms crossed. “Tell me what your question is. For your thesis.”
Right. We’re not on a share-your-backstory basis. Noted. I pull out my phone and my notes, cue a clip from last week, and turn the screen his way.
“Okay—Damon. You remember Damon?”
Holden lifts his gaze with what I’ve come to consider his trademark expression: equal parts boredom, skepticism, and quiet despair.
“Yes,” he says dryly. “Hard to forget the only octopus on the island with a name.”
I roll my eyes. “Right. So, he’s always shown preferences for R1 in blue and L1 in yellow when he’s playing with blocks.” I point to thetwo anterior arms working the Batman set. “Even at feed, he’ll initiate with those, or R2 and L2.”
Holden nods and leans in to study the movement. I lean back to keep the very male, very distracting scent of him from derailing my focus.
“If you swipe to the next video—” He does, his large hand tapping my phone. “Here. That’s him yesterday.”
He watches in silence, brows drawing in slightly. I catch the flare in his eyes—just a flicker, but unmistakable.
“He switched arms,” he says.
