I try to reconcile that with what I saw: a girl being hauled out of the water like driftwood. “Mitigated risk is still a risk.”
Holden studies me for a second, then tries a different track.
“You know cleaner fish?” he asks. “The ones that swim into the mouths of predators?”
“Yes.” I’m not sure where he’s going with this, but I know the behavior: mutualistic symbiosis. Cleaner wrasses enter the open jaws of large predatory fish to remove dead tissue, parasites, food debris. It benefits both parties, though one clearly holds more power.
“That’s what surfing pipeline is,” he says. “Calculated danger. There’s risk, yes, but there’s also understanding, preparation, reward. The surfer gives something up—safety, certainty—for the sake of something else. A thrill. A feeling of mastery. The illusion, however brief, that they’ve made the ocean listen.”
I stare at him. Because, of course, he used biology—ourlanguage—to explain something emotional. And it worked. I’m not entirely less afraid, but I understand the draw now. The control within the chaos. The knowledge of whatcouldgo wrong, counterbalanced by the choice to engage anyway. Isn’t that what we all strive for?
It doesn’t mean I won’t still worry for my friends when they get in the water. But at least now I know whythey go in at all.
He gives me a few more minutes away from the crowd, but he doesn’t leave. Just stands near, steady and unintrusive, like he knows better than to fill silence that isn't his to break. When we rejoin the group, everyone’s standing, and Theo and Nate are at the center—grins wide, hair dripping onto their brows.
Theo sees us and opens his arms, grinning. I lean into the hug without thinking.
“Got tired of watching me, Freckles?” he says, shaking his head like a wet dog, sending droplets all over my face.
I swat him away, laughing. “No. But please tell me you don’t have another one of those for a while.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “We’ve got three or four more days of this if the swell holds.”
My jaw drops. “Seriously?”
He chuckles. “I’m not asking you to come every day. Alana might, though.” He winks at her and she winks back.
He and Nate are pulled aside again—interviews, photos, some guy with a tiny mic asking questions—while the rest of us start packing up. The crowd is thinning. The waves haven’t stopped, but the buzz has quieted now that the surfers are mostly out of the water.
I glance back once, watch Theo gesturing animatedly with some local surfer-turned-influencer, then tilt my head toward Holden. “You think he’ll mind if I keep his hoodie just for today?”
Holden’s head turns. “His hoodie?”
I gesture down at the oversized black piece of clothing swallowing me whole, sleeves covering half my hands. “Yeah. This one.”
He smirks, amused, as he zips his bag. “That’s mine.”
I freeze mid-zip on my own backpack. “What?” My voice jumps an octave. “Why didn’t you say anything? You let me wear itallday.”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like the idea of me in his hoodie was never a question.
I start to take it off, already halfway out of the collar, but he gently tugs at the hem before I can lift it any further. I peek at him over the neckline that’s now pulled over my nose, only my eyes visible.
“It looks good on you,” he says. “Keep it.”
My jaw drops under the fabric, though I’m pretty sure he can sense it.
“I can’t keep your hoodie.”
“Why not?”
I can’t even manage a response.
Because that’s what people in relationships do.
Because it smells like you and now me and maybe something unspoken between us.
Because if I keep it, I’ll probably sleep in it.
