I think back to his lecture in BIOL 403 months ago—how sure he was when he told us that saving someone couldn't come at the expense of your own life. That self-preservation was the rule, not the exception.
“You could’ve put yourself in danger,” I say, voice softer now. “You told us not to do that.”
“I knew what I was doing.”
“Still,” I murmur. “You said not to risk your life for anyone.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He just watches me, eyes steady. My own lids are unbearably heavy, weighted by the dive, the adrenaline crash, and whatever this thing is between us that neither of us seems ready to name.
Then his hand rises, fingers calloused and warm as they brush hair from my cheek. He lingers, his palm grazing my temple, like he’s trying to memorize somethingbefore he lets it go.
And just as I feel myself slipping into sleep—into the kind of unconsciousness that comes only when your body has nothing left and your heart feels safe for once—he speaks, quiet and clear.
“You’re not just anyone.”
It’s the last thing I hear before the world disappears.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
We talk a lot about boundaries in research. About the lines you’re not supposed to cross. But the thing about lines is—they’re rarely permanent. A strong enough current, a small shift in temperature, and suddenly what was once safe, distant, academic… isn’t.
For all the careful planning my TA has done over the last few months to teach us how to handle field complications and the unpredictable, I’m fairly certain he didn’t account for the possibility that one of those complications would be his student.
And, diving incident aside, I don’t think I’ve actually been a problem in the field. If anything, I’ve noticed it—the flicker of approval in his eyes when I get things done before he asks, when the data aligns with the hypothesis again and again, as if the ocean itself is on our side.
But since I almost let my lungs implode underwater, he’s been… a little more watchful.
Dr. Kymbert joined us the day after the accident—meaning two days ago—and we’ve gone on at least three dives since. Quietly, away from the others, Holden pulled me aside to ask if I still felt comfortablediving. If I’d noticed any signs of trauma surfacing. It didn’t feel like he was trying to keep me out of the water—it felt like he was making sure I wasn’t staying in just to prove something.
I told him the truth. That it would take more than a gear malfunction to keep me out of the ocean. Especially now that we’re diving a reef system, and cephalopods have been showing up by the handful.
And so he lets me do my thing. He’s always nearby—checking my gear before each dive, sometimes double-checking everyone else’s too—but he doesn’t hover. When I tell him I’ve got it, he backs off. And when I’m locked in, zeroing in on something promising—like the variable I’ve been tracing between coral growth rates—he quietly gives me space, always careful not to step into the work I’m doing.
It’s subtle, but I notice it. I noticehim.
And it’s... endearing. More than I’d like to admit.
I don’t know if it’s intentional, if he’s pulling back because he doesn’t want to overstep, or if this is just how he manages his worry. Either way, I appreciate that he never takes the decision away from me. Not after the gear failure. Not after everything.
Dr. Kymbert hasn’t brought up the unfortunate diving event, and though she rarely dives with us—preferring to stay on the boat or back at camp—I’ve started catching the same quiet flicker of approval in her expression that I’ve grown used to seeing in Holden’s. She’s been generous with her encouragement, asking me to walk her through my process, pointing out when I pivot quickly or adapt in the field. When things go wrong—and they do—she watches how I respond.
She knows about what happened at the Crown. I’d been tempted to ask Holden not to tell her, but I didn’t need to. Her only concern has been my well-being, never my competence.
And the assistant who sent me down with faulty gear? I haven’t seen him since.
Part of me wanted to talk to him—to reassure him it wasn’t entirely his fault. Or maybe just to tell him I was okay. Technically, itwashis fault, but I should’ve double-checked. I know better. Every diver does.
But the one time I brought him up to Holden—just mentioned him in passing—was enough. The look he gave me made it clear: I wouldn’t be seeing him again.
Now, somehow, there are only two days left to the trip.
Despite everything that’s happened—or maybebecauseof everything that’s happened—it’s been the best experience of my life. The work, the exhaustion, the sunburns that sting beneath my rash guard—it’s all part of it. And the Galápagos? They’re not just beautiful. They’re elemental. Sacred, almost. No amount of scientific detachment or objectivity can really prepare you for the way these islands press into your memory, rearranging you a little.
Academia teaches you about resilience, about pushing through. It teaches you how to make deadlines through tears, how to format your suffering in 12-point Times New Roman. But fieldwork—beinghere—is something else entirely. It teaches youremembrance. Of what came before and what might come after. Of the fact that no matter how hard you try, some things are out of your control—and others are yours to carry, to protect.
A cuttlefish drifts past me, its fins rippling like silk caught in slow-motion wind. I stay still, watching the shimmer of its chromatophores shift. It doesn’t know me, won’t remember me—but I’ll rememberit. These brief encounters, these shared seconds of space… this is why Icame into this field in the first place. I offer it a small wave, then push up toward the surface.
The moment my head breaks through, a cheer rises from the boat.
