His thumb brushes my cheekbone, featherlight. Reverent.
“What did the guide say?”
“That I’m a living miracle and probably the next Captain Marvel.”
“Coralie.” His voice is low. It’s not annoyed—it’sraw.
I giggle, but his expression stays carved from stone, and the smile falters on my lips. “She said I’m fine. To rest. That’s all.”
He nods once. His hands fall from my face, and I try not to mourn their absence.
Then he walks over to the little table and grabs my duffel bag, holding it out to me.
“Change,” he says. “Then you should do what she said.” His voice is gentler now. Reassuring, even. “I’ll step out. Five minutes okay?”
I nod, and he turns. His broad back catches a slice of sunlight through the doorway before he steps outside and closes it behind him.
I make quick work of slipping on cotton shorts and a tank top, discarding my wetsuit over the back of the small wooden chair in the corner, then look for my blue Rip Curl hoodie.
Instead, I pull out a larger, more worn-out black one—and my eyes nearly bulge out of my head.
I did not pack Holden’s hoodie.
In fact, I’d planned on giving it back when we got home. I had left it neatly folded at the foot of my bed, completely intentional, completelynotin my bag. So how the hell is it here?
Maya.
I can see her smug little smirk in my mind already. She knew exactly whose hoodie it was. She knew why it had been sitting on my bed for over a week. And apparently, she thought it would be funny to swap itfor mine.
Holden walks in then, eyes on the floor.
“Can I, um… come in?”
I hum in answer, still caught mid-horror, holding the hoodie like it might detonate.
He lifts his gaze—and freezes. His eyes trail slowly up my bare legs, past my tank top, to the black hoodie clutched in my hands.
“I—well—I packed my own hoodie but Maya is a snake and I think this is her sick idea of a joke and I’m not even that cold, I swear, actually here, it’s yours?—”
He steps forward and takes the hoodie from my hands like it’s nothing, like my heart isn’t currently trying to throw itself off a cliff.
“Arms up,” he says.
Just that. Calm. Certain.
And maybe the near-drowning fried my brain because I actually do it. I lift my arms and let him pull the hoodie over my head, down my shoulders, past my arms. It hangs almost to my knees, soft and worn, and still faintly smelling like him.
His hands drop away, but he doesn’t step back instantly.
Instead, his eyes close for half a second, jaw tightening—and I couldswearI just heard him groan.
Soft. Low. Barely audible.
But very real.
When he opens his eyes again, they’re darker than before. His gaze lingers a second too long before he turns away and walks to the other side of the room.
And I just stand there in his hoodie, very aware of every inch of myskin it now touches. Very aware that, as far as accidental wardrobe thefts go, I might have to thank Maya for this one.
