Damon watches me with what I imagine is mild disapproval. But when I glance back, his body shifts slightly, color blooming faintly along his side. A muted amber, flickering in and out.
I watch Damon for what must be an hour or two, jotting down notes in the margins of the chaos Theo and I scrawled into my notebook yesterday. Day octopuses like him are a bit of an anomaly in the cephalopod world—diurnal creatures, active during daylight or crepuscular hours, unlike their nocturnal cousins. It explains his brighter coloration, and why he’s usually awake when I visit the lab.
He reached his full size a while ago, though he’s still on the smaller end for his species. Some can grow arms up to three feet long, but Damon has always been more compact. Scrappy. Efficient. He doesn’t waste energy trying to impress anyone. Like me, I guess.
Whenhe finally calms down and retreats to the corner of his tank—clearly tired of my endless chatter and enrichment puzzles—I take it as my cue. I pull out my laptop and open the tabs I’ve been avoiding. Sure, I’d probably be more comfortable working in the library, or at the café, or even holed up in my dorm, but it feels good to be here instead. Damon nearby. The hum of the filtration system. The faint echo of saltwater lapping against the tank. This kind of quiet feels earned.
I dive into readings, papers, figure drafts. Time blurs again. My screen fills with citations, annotations, half-written paragraphs. Hours must pass before the cursor starts to lag and the screen flickers faintly, like it’s just as tired as I am.
I groan softly and pat the side of my overheating laptop. “Come on, little buddy. Just one more figure. You’re so close. Push through and I’ll let you sleep.”
The fan kicks into high gear like it’s fighting for its life, and I make a mental note to finally use my student discount and replace this poor, exhausted machine. Eventually.
When my laptop finally surrenders—screen flickering, fan wheezing—I close it and set it aside on the counter. I slide off the stool, intending to grab my tote from the bench across the room.
But the second my feet hit the floor, the world tilts.
Everything spins. The lights overhead smear into streaks. My knees slam against the cold tile hard enough to rattle my teeth. Nausea rushes up, thick and immediate, and bile sears the back of my throat.
What—?
I grip the cabinet in front of me, fingertips digging into the metal edges, and press my forehead to its cool surface. The contact isgrounding, if only slightly. But my stomach is still twisting, my ears ringing, my vision swimming like I’ve been dropped underwater and left to drift. I’ve only fainted a couple of times in my life, but this feels dangerously close to that.
Shapes blur. The hum of the lab distorts.
Then—footsteps. Close. Then closer.
And a voice, half-muffled, half-a-world away. Like it’s coming through static.
"All I’m saying is she’s the most promising student I’ve seen in a long time. She reminds me of myself a couple years ago. Her mind is brilliant and—fuck. I mean—no, sorry, I’m gonna have to call you back."
The voice cuts out as fast as it appeared, and I keep my eyes squeezed shut, unwilling to look up, unwilling to see the room shift again.
Everything is loud and far away at once. The cabinet doors feel like they're swaying under my hands. I hold on tighter. Just breathe. Just stay conscious. Just don’t fall apart completely.
Seconds later, a warm, steady pressure lands on my lower back, wide enough to span the whole thing.
“Coralie? Coralie, can you hear me?”
The voice floats to me through molasses. Close, but not quite in my orbit. Like we’re not sharing the same space-time continuum.
Then it comes again, closer now—right near my ear.
“I’m going to pick you up, okay?”
I manage a small nod, eyes still clenched shut to keep the spinningat bay.
His touch shifts—one arm curling behind my knees, the other supporting my back—and then I’m weightless. Not for long. Just long enough to be lifted, shifted, and set gently on the stool, my back guided to lean against the cool counter behind me.
I blink one eye open.
Holden is standing in front of me, brows pulled into a stormcloud frown, his eyes scanning me like he’s running diagnostics.
“Hey,” he says, voice low but urgent, as his fingers gently tilt my chin toward him. “I’m going to need you to talk to me. What’s going on?”
“Hi, Holden,” I whisper.
The nausea is still there, curling low and persistent in my gut, but the heat coming off of him—his nearness, his scent—grounds me. That familiar mix of rain, cedar, and whatever brand of handsome he uses as cologne.
