He steps closer. Closer. And then his chest is at my back, solid and unfairly warm. His arms come around me slowly, one after the other, threading across my waist like gravity. His hands are large, his forearms tense—muscle and restraint held tight beneath skin. His chin finds the top of my head, settling there with terrifying gentleness.
“I’m sorry.”
I should respond. I should ask what for—what part, which version of the distance he’s been giving me lately.
Because for all the ways Holden Wilkes has pulled back, held off, measured himself with clinical precision—he has always answered me. Even if it took a while. Even if it came like this, wrapped in apology and riddle.
He sighs—and there’s only so much a girl can do when the man who ruins every other man for her is this close, arms around her like a promise, voice low and ragged with regret.
So I turn around.
He doesn’t let go. Just loosens his hold enough to let me move, then drags me back in like he can’t help himself. His hands settle on my lower back, warm and grounding. I keep my eyes on his chest for a moment, just… taking it in. The width of him. The heat. The way his fingers flex like he’s trying not to pull me closer, like he’s fighting something off—and losing.
He’s only ever held me like this when I was half-drowning. This time, there’s no rescue. No excuse. Just the press of his body against mine because he wants it. Wantsme.
A raindrop lands on my forehead. Then another. Slowly, steadily, the sand darkens beneath us. Our clothes dampenin patches.
“What do you want, Holden?” My voice doesn’t come out small like I thought it might.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes in. Out. Like he’s working up the nerve to rip something wide open.
“It doesn’t really matter what I want.”
I still don’t look at him. I keep my focus on his chest, my fingers drawing slow, absent-minded circles over the wet cotton clinging to his ribs—if only to keep myself grounded.
“It does. And you know it. Or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Will you look at me?”
“Why?” I ask, stubbornness edging the question. I remind myself I’m an evolved, rational woman. I also remind myself that rationality is currently losing a long, slow war with want.
“Because I’m tired of staring at the turquoise of the water,” he says, voice low, wrecked. “It doesn’t stand a fucking chance next to your eyes.”
My head snaps up.
He has a gift—a cruel, miraculous one—for making me question my grip on reality.
I stare into his eyes, mine ping-ponging between his—searching. There’s no teasing, no hesitation. Just quiet, steady truth. My lips part slightly at his words, and the moment his gaze flickers down to them, I spin away. He doesn’t stop me. I step toward one of the dark boulders dotting the shoreline, slick with rain. But I can feel him behind me—following.
“You can’t say things like that to me,” I snap, spinning back towardhim. The mix of anger, sadness, and impossible longing hits me like the tide.
“I know.”
“And you have to make up your mind,” I say, my voice tight, rising.
“I know.”
“You don’tknoweverything, Holden!”
He huffs a hollow laugh. “Yeah. I know that, too.”
The fight drains out of me. There’s a difference between not knowing andrefusingto know. With Holden, I live somewhere in that gray space in between.
“Please,” I breathe. “Just this once… tell me what’s in your head. No riddles. No lines with two meanings. Just you.”
He steps closer. The rain’s picking up, droplets streaking his face, turning his eyes the color of deep earth. Still, he doesn’t blink.
“I didn’t know I had a weakness,” he says quietly, “until you walked into my class and flipped my world inside out.” The breath leaves me. “But it’s not right, Coralie.”
