She beams at me and we sit like that for another couple minutes—herperched on the edge of the table, me crouched beside her—laughing at Damon’s antics and narrating his tiny triumphs.
She’s so locked in on the videos that she doesn’t notice the man who’s just stepped up to the booth—but I do.
Holden.
His gaze flicks from her to me and back again, something unreadable—almost startled—hovering in his expression before he lifts a hand to the back of his neck.
“Penny,” he says, voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it in public. “It’s almost time to go.”
She spins toward him, delighted. “That’s him!” she says, pointing like she’s just revealed a celebrity. “That’s my uncle.”
I blink, hard, as if my brain needs a second to reconcile the man in front of me with… this new context. Not that I need any more familiarity with him—my senses already memorize him on contact. The scent of wood and rain. The quiet heat of his presence. The way he fills space without even trying.
“Oh. Hi,” I say, a little caught. “You’re the one who taught her about octopuses.”
He glances away briefly, then meets my eyes again. “Guilty.”
She hops down and holds up my phone to him like it’s a prize. “Look! She has an octopus named Damon. He does puzzles and hides in tunnels and plays peekaboo!”
Holden leans in to look, and I watch his expression shift into something I wasn’t prepared for—softness. Real, bone-deep fondness, the kind that speaks of bedtime stories and scraped knees and knowing a kid well enough to predict their favorite snackbefore they say it.
“That is very cool,” he tells her, smiling in a way that rearranges my internal organs. “But I promised your mom I’d have you back by four, and it’s almost that.”
She pouts, the dramatic kind only a kid can get away with, and hands me back my phone like it hurts. “Thank you for the videos,” she says solemnly. “And the oyster stuff.”
“Anytime,” I answer, managing a small smile.
She gives the tank one last longing glance, then takes his hand without hesitation. He starts to lead her away, but halfway into the crowd, he turns back—just for a second—and meets my gaze.
A slight nod. Maybe a thank you.
Then they vanish into the tide of people, leaving me standing there, phone in hand, pulse in free fall.
And, okay. I’ll admit it. I’m going to need to open a new folder in the Holden Wilkes Hotness Archives, because apparently “good with kids” is a category I didn’t know I had.
A few hours later, and it’s like none of it ever happened.
A small army of volunteers swept through in the last hour, breaking down every booth with practiced efficiency. Tanks were drained and secured, tables folded, signs unscrewed from poles and packed into trucks. The whole thing disappeared like a tide rolling out, leaving behind only damp footprints and a few stray zip ties buried in the sand that I picked up immediately, of course.
The beach is empty again—for now.
It’s not likely to last, though. The university must’ve been feeling particularly benevolent, because tonight’s event is a full-on studentbonfire, open to anyone within a thirty-foot radius of a dorm or a college ID. Which means locals, tourists, and at least one guy with an acoustic guitar are bound to show up, too.
A bonfire crew’s already at work, stacking massive wooden beams—easily twice my height—into a kind of geometric pyre, perfect for burning and over-photographing. It’ll be a full blaze by nightfall, and judging by the cool breeze coming off the water, we’ll need it.
I check the time. If I want to make it to the event—and I do, because Maya has made it extremely clear that declining one more invitation to “interact with other living beings” will result in my slow and painful death—I don’t have time to run back to the dorm and change.
I’m still in my black biker shorts with the university crest stamped down one leg, and a matching tank top that now smells faintly of seawater. The temperature’s already dipping a little, so I veer off the sand and head toward the sidewalk, scanning for the nearest ABC Store. If I’m lucky, they’ll have a hoodie that doesn’t screamI went to Waikiki and all I got was this overpriced sweatshirt, but I’m not holding my breath.
I’ve only made it a block before I hear my name cut through the chatter of the boulevard.
“Coralie, wait up!”
I turn to see Theo jogging toward me, all easy energy and crooked smile. I stop, let him pull me into a hug—the kind I’ve come to expect from him, from Maya, from Kai. Familiar. Safe.
“Where are you going? The bonfire starts in, like, an hour.”
“I know,” I say, returning the smile. “But I didn’t bring any spare clothes, and I’m scared I’ll be cold. I figured I’d grab a hoodie.”
