“Congratulations!” Dr. Kymbert calls out, cupping her hands around her mouth. “That was your final school-sanctioned dive. Fantastic work from all of you.”
I swim to the edge, catch Mateo’s extended hand, and haul myself back on deck. I’m still dripping when Holden shows up at my side, silent but efficient, helping unbuckle my gear and set it with the others. His hands linger on the strap at my shoulder for just a second longer than necessary—but maybe I imagined it. I’m not sure anymore.
Dr. Kymbert steps forward again, her clipboard tucked under one arm. “As a reward for your hard, unpaid labor, we’ll be visiting the giant tortoise habitats tomorrow.” A few people cheer louder. “And,” she adds, “while I did originally plan for you all to spend this afternoon reviewing data, Mr. Wilkes”—she glances his way—“has convinced me to let you rest. Given the, uh, trying few days we’ve had.”
Everyone turns to Holden like he’s just sprouted a second head.
He doesn’t look up from stowing the gear. Just shrugs and says, “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”
That gets a round of laughter, including from Dr. Kymbert herself.
I risk a glance his way—and find him already watching.
I don’t let myself look long enough to read his expression. It’s easier that way. Cleaner. When I woke up the morning after the incident, I half expected him to be gone again, the way he’s been nearly everymorning since we got here. Always out the door before I stir, always a shadow trailing the sun.
But no. He was there.
Still sitting on the floor beside the bunk, just like he’d been when I closed my eyes. Only now he had a pillow wedged behind his back and a blanket pulled haphazardly across his lap. His head still rested close to mine, near the bedframe. One arm lay across his chest, the other—dangerously, heartbreakingly—near my hand. Like the final pose of a man who’d tried to stay awake and lost.
My throat tightened at the sight.
I hoped he hadn’t slept like that all night. Hoped he wasn’t hurting because of me. And that’s when I made the first mistake of many: I touched him.
I ran my fingers through his hair.
It wasn’t planned. It was impulsive and soft and everything I’d wanted to do for days. Maybe even weeks. His hair was thick, sun-warmed and roughened slightly by days of saltwater and wind. I let myself smile—just for a second—at how peaceful he looked. Like this was the only state in which I’d ever get to see him unguarded. Like his features had been carved into restfulness by sleep instead of the usual discipline.
But then he opened his eyes. And though I could’ve sworn—sworn—he leaned slightly into my touch, the frown that followed hit like a slap.
“What are you doing?” he said.
He didn’t move away from my hand. But he also didn’t soften. And that was enough.
I froze before pulling my fingers back like I’d been burned. Mumbled a sorry I meant in every possible way. I shouldn't havetouched him without his consent, no matter how quiet and harmless it had felt. The guilt was sharp.
He tried, after that. Asked how I was feeling, if my head still hurt, if anything felt off. But I’d already started packing my exit. I grabbed my wetsuit, ducked into the sixth cabin to change, and went straight to breakfast, my throat thick and my heart somewhere under the soles of my dive boots.
Here’s the thing: I’vebeenhaving feelings for Holden.
What they are, I can’t name. Not entirely. I don’t know if they’re shallow crushes or deep-rooted fault lines. All I know is that from the moment I realized it, to the moment I embarrassed myself trying to say it out loud, to all the clumsy ways I’ve tried to exorcise those feelings since—they’ve refused to die.
They just… persist.
Holden can be hot and cold all he wants. He can push me away, ignore me, hint at distance, and then reel me back in with a look or a word. He can tell me to let go. But unless hesays it—unless he looks me in the eye and tells me he wantsnothingto do with me—then some piece of me is going to hold on. Whether I like it or not.
And maybe that’s pathetic. Maybe that’s a clear violation of the Barnacle Rule or whatever survival instinct is supposed to protect my heart. But I’m used to attachments being one-sided. Cephalopods rarely get attached back. They're brilliant and strange and emotionally unreadable. I can respect that in a man-shaped animal just as much as I do in an animal-shaped genius.
But still—I need to protect myself.
Whatever this is, whatever italmostis, it’s been slowly, steadilypulling me under. An inch at a time. And the more time I spend around him, the harder it is to keep my feet on solid ground.
Since then, I’ve done what I can to put some distance between us. It probably won’t hold—not for long. And it certainly won’t do much to quiet the parts of me that still ache when I hear his voice or catch him watching me when he thinks I won’t notice.
But it’s something. A line drawn in the sand, however faint. A reminder that Ican, if I must, live a life where Holden Wilkes exists only in the margins—an annotation in the corners of my story, and nothing more.
We walk back to camp, heavy gear in hand, and drop it all near the cabins. Thankfully, the oppressive afternoon heat has given way to thick, dark clouds, offering the kind of break only impending rain can promise.
“I’m crashing today,” Tristan says, unhooking his gear and stretching his arms overhead. “No way I’m doing anything but snoring for the rest of the afternoon.”
