“No, you should,” he says, crouching to untie his shoes. “It’s… refreshing.”
Then, after a pause, “You’re a little like Theo that way. The guy finds something to be excited about in literally everything.”
“Everything?” I glance at him, eyebrows raised.
He shrugs, now digging for sunscreen. “Well, he hates bell peppers.And he’s never gotten along with Summer. But besides that? Yeah, pretty much everything.”
I laugh, and it feels easy here—under the sun, with sand between my toes, and nothing but clear water and better-than-expected company ahead of me.
When I first saw Holden and Theo together, they looked like the most mismatched pair of humans ever assembled. One broody and impossible to read, the other open like a window in June. But the more time I spend with both of them, the more I get it.
Holden’s humor is quieter—sharper, more selective—but when it surfaces, it fits Theo’s perfectly. Like they’re speaking the same language, just in different dialects.
And maybe that’s the thing. Holden told me he used to be different. Before his brother. Before everything shifted. I imagine he and Theo were probably more alike back then. Now, Theo is the sun through the clouds, and Holden—he’s the storm that knows when to pull back to let the sun shine.
Somehow, it works.
He finishes rubbing sunscreen over the parts of his arms not covered by his short-sleeved wetsuit, then lifts a finger in the air and motions for me to turn around. I do, and without a word, he smooths sunscreen over the back of my neck—efficient, firm, gentle. Then he passes me the bottle so I can do my arms and legs.
Once we’re properly UV-proofed, we grab our masks and snorkels, and the fins he brought from camp, then start walking down the beach toward the water.
“Are you a good diver?” he asks as the waves reach our knees. Heslips on his fins with the kind of practiced ease that makes it clear he’s done this a hundred times, then wades in deeper.
And listen, I’ve seen him look good before. I’ve seen the jeans, the henleys, the soaked-through t-shirts at the beach. But this? This wetsuit? It clings to him like it would be personally offended by the idea of leaving anything to the imagination. Every line of muscle, every angle, all of it wrapped up in black neoprene and salt water. He looks stupid hot. Not in the abstract, distant way people look hot on posters. No. The kind of hot that makes me genuinely concerned for my ability to stay conscious.
I clear my throat and focus on my own fins. “Yep,” I say, once I’ve caught up to him in the deeper water. He’s still standing, but the sea floor’s already disappeared beneath my toes. “Whereas land makes me clumsy, water’s always made sense. Maybe I really am fish girl.”
“She shouldn’t have called you that,” he says, tone flat but final.
I shrug. “It’s not entirely wrong. Cephalopod girl would’ve been more accurate, but I do have stickers of all seven major species of salmon, so.”
His mouth twitches, just barely. “That’s not helping your case.”
“I know,” I say, grinning.
We ease in slowly, slipping our masks on and floating just beneath the surface as we swim farther from shore. The water is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, like glass poured over the seafloor. Visibility must be at least twenty meters, maybe more.
The bottom looks like the Galápagos just tipped over and spilled sea cucumbers everywhere. There are dozens of them sprawled out across the volcanic rock—some the size of my hand, others… well, offensively large. I vaguely remember reading that they’reone of the archipelago’s biggest exports, and now I understand why. If I reach down, I could probably collect a hundred without even trying.
Not that I would.
Sea cucumbers might look like lazy underwater sausages, but some can defend themselves by releasing sticky, irritating threads—or even mildly toxic compounds—when stressed, and touching them can damage the protective coating on their bodies. So, no. Hands to myself. Marine-life etiquette and basic self-preservation.
I like my fingers attached to my body, thank you very much.
Every so often, I tilt my head to glance at Holden. His face is mostly obscured by his mask, but his eyes—those dark, maddening eyes—are constantly moving, scanning, tracking. Even here, he’s observing, cataloguing. But there’s something different, too. His features are looser, his shoulders uncoiled. He’s not just analyzing. He’s enjoying this. Maybe even a little in awe.
I blame the wetsuit again for everything. It’s clinging to him like it has unresolved feelings. And don’t even get me started on his mouth—pursed around the snorkel in a way that should not be allowed in academic settings.
A few minutes in, I feel a soft tap on my arm. I turn and see him gesturing downward. I follow his pointing finger, and?—
Oh.
Just beyond a rocky ledge, hovering near a cave entrance, are at least six white-tip reef sharks. Sleek, elegant, gliding like ink across the blue.
I make a muffled noise into my snorkel, which earns a glance from Holden. We both break the surface at the same time, water running down our faces.
“Oh my god,” I say breathlessly. “Mateo would’ve actuallylovedthis.”
