“I know, Freckles. I know.” His voice thickens, like it hurts him too. “This is just how these things go.”
But I didn’t say goodbye. And somehow, that makes it worse. This grief is sharp and strange and entirely new. I’ve never lost anything like this. Not a grandparent. Not a friend. Not even a childhood pet. Damon was a subject, yes. But also a companion. A constant. A little pulse of intelligence I got to watch up close, day after day.
So I cry. I let myself cry like I haven’t since I was a kid.
Theo doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t let go.
And only when the sobs start to quiet, when the storm inside me finally starts to ebb, do I realize: he wasn’t alone when I walked in.
I whip my head up and notice for the first time the other taller, broader man sitting on the corner of Theo’s desk.
Holden.
His eyes land on mine with a quiet kind of sympathy, soft but alert. His gaze flicks, just briefly, to the way Theo’s arm is still wrapped around me. Something shifts in his jaw—a tiny muscle ticks—but it’s gone as quickly as it came.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, mortified. I stumble back a little, out of Theo’s arms, wiping at my eyes with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “I—I didn’t even realize—God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt, I didn’t even think to check if you were in the middle of something?—”
“We weren’t in the middle of anything,” Theo says, calm as ever. “You’re not interrupting.”
I nod, flustered and still trying to piece my breathing back together, suddenly hyper-aware of how ridiculous I must look. A grad student having a full-blown breakdown over a mollusk. And not justin front of anyone—them. Two of the most accomplished, well-respected, undeniably attractive PhD candidates at this university.
I glance between them, my stomach knotting with embarrassment. “Still… I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to it.”
Theo looks at Holden, who nods—barely—and pushes off the desk with a slow, deliberate movement. He’s back in his usual uniform: dark jeans, a chocolate brown henley that hugs his frame unfairly well, the same worn watch I’ve seen him adjust mid-lecture a hundred times. But there’s more sun in his skin than there was before the trip.
He crosses the space between us and lifts a hand, brushing a tear from my cheek with his thumb. The touch is gentle. Respectful.
“Come with me,” he says quietly. “Let’s go to my office.”
I want to say no. Ishouldsay no. I should retreat, cry it out somewhere private, somewhere safe. Somewhere I don’t have to be seen like this—eyes swollen, breath uneven, heart split down the middle over something no one else probably understands.
But when he looks at me like that—like he gets it, like he sees the space Damon left behind and knows exactly how loud silence can be—I can’t say no.
So I nod.
Theo squeezes my shoulder once, wordless support in his eyes, and I glance back as I follow Holden out the door, mouthing a softthank you. He answers with a small nod, then turns toward the music still playing softly from his speakers.
We reach Holden’s office in a few brisk, echoing steps—the hallway mercifully empty, so no one gets to see the blotchy state of my face or the pathetic way I’m holding myself together with sheer willpower.He unlocks the door with a flick of his wrist, then gently presses his palm to the small of my back to guide me in. The door clicks shut behind us, and I hear the subtle snick of the lock sliding back into place.
The space hits me like a sigh. It always does.
Maps, some peeling at the corners. A globe with worn gold lines and fingerprints smudged along the equator. Shelves brimming with textbooks and rock samples and the kind of clutter that only makes a place feel lived-in rather than messy. The chair still has the sea-glass colored pillow slouched against it, and a stack of dog-eared field journals crowds one side of the desk. I don’t mean to think it, but I wonder—briefly, traitorously—if his apartment feels like this. Or if it’s more Theo’s aesthetic. Or some blend of chaos and order that’s entirely, achingly theirs.
The thought evaporates when Holden clears his throat.
He’s leaning back against the closed door, hands buried in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders tense in a way that makes his whole frame look sharper, more angular. He’s studying me—not intrusively, just… carefully. Like he’s trying to solve an equation he’s not sure he has all the variables for.
“You know there’s nothing you could’ve done, right?” he says, quiet but firm.
Ever the pragmatist. Even when it’s supposed to hurt.
And suddenly I feel like a fraud for crying over Damon. Like I’ve walked in here carrying a grief that’s too soft, too absurd, in front of someone who’s shouldered real loss. A brother. A life. What’s one octopus compared to that?
I swipe at my eyes. “I know. It’s fine, really, I’m justbeing?—”
“Don’t do that.” His voice cuts clean through my deflection. He pushes off the door, takes a step closer, and his brows pinch like it physically pains him to see me pretend. “Don’t pretend you’re okay just to make me more comfortable,” he says. “Especially not when you let it all out for Theo.”
It takes me a second too long to process the sting in that sentence. My eyes widen.
