He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Naturally. Did you have a question?”
Not one that makes any sense out loud. But I nod anyway, buying myself time. “I was wondering if you could give me Theo’s number.”
He frowns, leaning forward slightly. Despite him sitting and me standing, we’re perfectly eye-level.
“Why do you need Theo’s number?” he asks, and his voice drops into that lower register that feels borderline unfair.
“Well, um... he said he’d take me to the Makapu?u tide pools. I have some free time later this week and thought I’d reach out.” I bite my lower lip, immediately regretting it when his gaze flicks to my mouth. “I don’t know his office hours. Otherwise I’d just stop by.”
His expression shifts—just slightly. Surprise, maybe. Or something else. He stays quiet long enough for me to fill thesilence with self-doubt.
When he speaks again, his voice is stripped of humor. “Coralie, Theo’s brilliant, but marine fauna isn’t his field.”
I blink. “I know that.”
His eyes stay locked on mine. “If someone’s taking you to the tide pools nearmyhouse, it’ll be me.”
Heat floods my neck like a switch got thrown. “What?”
“If it’s Theo you want, I’ll give you his number.” His voice is steady—neutral, almost—but the air between us has compressed into something sharp. “But I wouldn’t be thrilled about it.”
He unfolds his arms, leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “If you just need someone to bring you there—someone who’ll watch out for rogue waves or stay while you explore—I’ll take you.”
The silence between us stretches, and I have no idea how to fill it because he isn’t blinking and my heart is no longer obeying basic rhythm.
This is how I know I did not, in fact, think this through. I could’ve asked Alana to bring me. I could’ve just taken the bus.
“I—” There goes the speech center of my brain again. “Okay. Thank you.”
He nods, unreadable again. But his gaze lingers, like he’s waiting for something else. When it doesn’t come, he leans back. I grab my bag with what I hope is a neutral expression and make a polite, hasty retreat up the steps and out of the hall.
The air outside doesn’t help. My insides feel like magma—dense and volatile—and right now, the only thing I’m clear on is that I need distance. From him. From that voice. From the idea that he might care.
Four hours later, I’ve done a decent job of shoving Holden to the back of my brain—where, unfortunately, he seems to have sublet permanent space—in favor of girl time with Maya, Alana, and Soren. We brought back enough Chinese takeout to feed a lab team after a double dive. Szechuan eggplant, garlic noodles, orange chicken, scallion pancakes, dumplings, and more fried rice than anyone should reasonably order. Alana and Soren’s apartment smells like a fusion of soy sauce and sweet chili heat, and the coffee table is covered in half-crumpled paper bags and open containers with chopsticks sticking out of them.
Maya’s “Certified Plate Cleaner” playlist is playing quietly in the background, and by the time we’re all collapsed on the floor in varying states of food coma, I almost believe I’ve outrun my own thoughts for the day.
Almost.
That is until Maya, who’s been suspiciously quiet for the last ten minutes, turns her head toward me.
“Cora, when are you going to admit you have feelings for your teacher?”
My head falls back against the couch cushion. “He’s not my teacher,” I say without looking at her. “He’s a PhD student. He just happens to be my TA.”
“Uh-huh. That’s what we call a technicality,” Maya says, chewing the last bite of spring roll. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’ve got it bad.”
“I do nothave it bad. I’m just… dealing with an unwanted neurochemical response to a particularly intelligent male.”
Alana hums. “Girl, no. Use precise terminology. Describe the man the way he deserves.”
We all blink at her.
She shrugs. “What? I’m not saying I like him—he’s way too emotionally detached for me—but Icouldsurvive being trapped in an elevator with him without resorting to cannibalism. He’s hot, Coralie, it’s fine.”
That earns a round of snort-laughter from all of us.
“I don’t know,” I admit after a beat. “It’s like my brain has created an internal database calledInconveniently Attractive Things About Holdenand updates it hourly. Without my consent, by the way.”
