Seconds later—probably, though time has unraveled into something shapeless—we break the surface.
My busted hose is still fizzing like a fountain behind me, the sound shrill and wrong in the open air. Holden rips off his own regulator and grabs my face with bothhands.
“Coralie? Coralie!” His voice is loud and close, but it’s like I’m underwater all over again, everything muffled by the pressure in my skull and the exhaustion pulling me under.
“Fuck,” he spits, and kicks hard toward the boat.
Figures lean over the edge—blurred silhouettes against the blinding sky. Then hands—multiple, frantic—reach down to haul me up. I try to help, try to grip something, but my muscles are useless, more rubber than bone. The second my tank hits the deck with a heavy thud, I collapse onto my back, gasping.
Someone starts unbuckling my belt. The moment the weight is off me, Holden flips me onto my side.
Then it comes—violent and unexpected. A deluge of seawater I didn’t even realize I’d swallowed empties from my mouth in deep, wrenching coughs.
I wheeze. Gasp. Choke again. Then I’m rolled gently back, and his face appears above mine—soaked, grim, beautiful. Tiny drops fall from the tips of his wet hair, landing on my cheeks like punctuation marks.
“Trouble,” he says, low and tight. “Talk to me. Can you hear me?”
“Mmm.” It’s pathetic, but it’s something.
Noise erupts behind him. Splashes. Voices.
“Is she okay?”
“Oh my god, Coralie!”
“Why are her lips blue?”
Holden doesn’t turn. Doesn’t flinch. Just growls, “Out of the water. Now. Dive’s over.” His tone leaves no room for debate.
The dive assistant approaches, half-lifted hands already moving to pick me up and carry me somewhere that’s not in the way. Holden’s head snaps in his direction, and I swear I’ve never seen him look like this before—not furious, not cold.Lethal.
“Back off.” It’s not loud, but it carries.
He lifts me himself—strong, efficient, careful—and wraps a towel around my shoulders with more gentleness than I thought he had in him. I’m not shivering, but I think maybe I should be.
The boat lurches into motion not long after, and an oxygen mask is placed over my mouth.
My vision stabilizes just enough to see the sharp lines of Holden’s jaw clenched tight. He’s still beside me. Still watching. And even though my lungs ache and my head’s a war drum, I let my eyes close. I think, at least, I’m safe.
By the time we reach the pier again, I’ve regained some semblance of composure. My lungs no longer feel like sandpaper and I can stand without swaying which, in my book, is practically a clean bill of health. Everyone else, though, seems convinced I might spontaneously keel over. The stares are wide-eyed, hesitant—like I’m some wounded possum they’re afraid to touch.
“I’m fine,” I say for the third time.
To prove it, I puff out my cheeks in a dramatic breath, chipmunk-style, and glance at Holden, waiting for even the tiniest smirk.
Nothing.
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smile. Just watches me like I mightdissolve.
When we dock, people disembark quickly, most still casting subtle glances my way. Holden steps aside with Tristan.
“Can you carry her gear back to camp?” he asks.
“I can do it,” I interrupt, frowning. “I said I’m fine.”
“No,” Holden says, turning to me with an expression that brooks no argument. “You’re going to the infirmary.”
“I’m what?”
