But assuming that’s where the legend ended? That was my mistake. The first flag should’ve been when Dr. Kymbert introduced him not just as her TA, but as a contributor to her published research. Then there was Summer, casually dropping the fact that he turned down a fully-funded post-doc because the labs “didn’t meet his standards.” He hasn’t evenfinishedhis PhD. Since then, I’ve heard whispers—he graduated undergrad early, published inNatureat twenty, even rewrote a protocol that's now used department-wide.
So, yeah. If he acts allergic to incompetence, he’s got the credentials to back it up.
“Margaret—Dr. Kymbert—is busy with her coral legislation,” he says, the use of her first name still grating in ways I won’t unpack. “So you’re stuck with me today.”
A quick glance around tells me the general reaction is… not exactly devastated.
But I’m barely hearing him now. Because between what he meant to say the other day, what I assumed, and everything neither of us actually said—there’s another version of us suspended somewhere in the negative space. A draft that never got written.
And yet the version of him standing right here, arms crossed, gaze sharp, is the one that’s undoing me.
I’ve recently come to the somewhat mortifying realization that I find Holden attractive. Not in the way I used to find Malcolm attractive or how, objectively, Theo is. No. This is more... involuntary. Physiological. Cellular. He walks into a room and my heart rate does things it shouldn’t. There’s something about him that overrides basic logic.
Even his distant, vaguely irritated energy doesn’t help. Or maybe that’s part of the problem.
And look—I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t even think about romance while at Manoa. My scholarship, my future—they’re not exactly built to withstand crushes. Especially not on someone who is very much taken. Holden is dating Summer. The end. No exceptions, no bending the rules just because I want to. Another woman’s heart isn’t collateral for mine.
But I’m also done lying to myself.
I can’t pretend his gaze doesn’t make my stomach twist, or that his brain doesn’t spark something in me I haven’t felt in years. I can’t keep pretending his touch hasn’t been rerouting my REM cycles on a nightly basis.
So here’s where I’ve landed: Holden is and will always be the very thing he studies. A storm front. Something powerful, precise, and fleeting. Every time he passes through, he throws offmy schedule, my pulse, my entire way of thinking. But storms don’t adjust to the things they interrupt.
So while, yes, I’m painfully aware of the physiological chaos Holden triggers—cognitive dissonance, loss of verbal function, a highly inconvenient uptick in heart rate—I’ve also grown tired of the constant miscommunication. Not just between us, but the kind that loops within my own head, rewiring logic into static.
That’s where I draw a line. I’ll admire from a responsible distance—acknowledging that the male currently occupying the front of the classroom is, unfortunately, chemically compelling. No romantic hypotheses. No unnecessary entanglements. Just controlled exposure to a known academic hazard.
“—Taylor. Something on your mind?” His voice cuts in, low and close, pulling me sharply back to earth.
I blink up at him, heart stuttering. He’s only a few feet away, and I have absolutely no idea how long I’ve been staring.
“Oh, um, no,” I stammer. My cheeks go warm, and the cetacean scientist next to me lets out a not-so-subtle giggle.
He nods and turns back to the front of the room, where he settles on the edge of the desk again.
“Listen,” he says, exhaling like this whole interaction already exhausts him. “I’m aware some of you may have questions about my work, research, or anything in between. Now’s the time—before we start.”
Immediately, hands shoot up—more than I’ve seen all semester. Questions pour in about his publications, fieldwork, and academic milestones. He answers with crispefficiency, skipping only what he chooses to leave behind. No flinching, no fumbling. Just that infuriating clarity.
Eventually, he stands and moves to the whiteboard. He picks up a marker, flips it between his fingers with quiet control, then begins.
“One thing that’s gotten me this far? I only believe in two absolute truths,” he says. “One: everything is made of atoms. Two: humanity will never agree unanimously on one thing.”
He writes them out in clean, narrow lettering. His handwriting is absurdly neat and I catch myself wondering if he ever writes messily. If anything about him isallowedto be uncontained.
“Everything else,” he continues, “is negotiable. Including how we solve problems in the field. Disagreement isn’t an obstacle—it’s the mechanism.”
He scans the room again, and this time, his eyes catch on mine. Not long enough to mean anything. Just long enough to feel like it might.
“In fact,” he adds, “if you find yourself agreeing with everyone around you, you’re probably not asking the right questions.”
Jolly. Cast him as the grinch, pronto. Leave it to Holden to make radical nonconformity sound like a departmental policy.
Still, I can’t deny the pull of it. There’s something about the way his mind works—ruthless, exacting, always two steps ahead—that makes me want to follow just to see where it goes.
Even if I’m not sure he wants anyone close enough to find out.
He spends the rest of the class walking us through worst-case field scenarios—diver down, gear failure, boat adrift. Every situation escalates like a slow-boil disaster movie, and he forces us to think our wayout. No guesswork. No hypotheticals without logic. It’s like sparring with someone who makes every sentence feel like a thesis defense—tight, surgical, impossible to argue with.
