“I… It’s not like that, I just—” My words scatter, useless. Because how do I explain what even I barely understand?
That Theo is safe in a familiar, untouchable way. That being held by him feels like borrowing someone’s hoodie—comforting, oversized, no strings attached. But Holden…
Holden is a mirror I haven’t figured out how to look into without flinching. With him, I feelsafest. And yet, it’s exactly because I feel so safe that I don’t want to fall apart. Because he sees everything. Because his opinion weighs more. Because the way I break in front of him would mean more than I’m ready to admit.
I meet his eyes, finally, and the truth slides out of me before I can stop it.
“I don’t know how to fall apart in front of you.”
He softens, just slightly. Enough for the wall between us to tilt.
“What do you really feel, Coralie?”
My bottom lip wobbles. That’s my answer.
And it’s enough. He doesn’t press. Just unfolds his arms, offering them to me like a question I don’t even hesitate to answer. Always and forever allowing me the choice to be touched or not. I step into him, let my forehead rest against the steady plane of his chest, and hisarms come around me, warm and steady and exactly what I didn’t know I was waiting for.
The heat of him wraps around me, anchoring me in a way that makes my throat ache. This—his scent, the solid weight of his arms, the quiet rumble of his breath—is the comfort that unspools me even as it holds me together. The only person whose presence manages to both steady my nervous system and completely scramble it.
“They even erased the cephalopod vandalism,” I mutter into his shirt.
“The scribbles behind the tank?”
I lift my head just enough to look at him, surprised. “You knew?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You can’t be serious.”
“I thought me and the other vandal were being subtle.”
His mouth quirks in a knowing smile. One hand moves to gently comb through my hair, slow and soothing. “It was a pretty good drawing, Trouble. The attitude was spot-on.”
A watery laugh escapes me, but it’s hollow. I’m too spent to properly react—too tangled up in the grief, the shame of showing it, the sheer unfairness of it all. And yet, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be standing than in the middle of this tiny office, in his arms.
For a while, he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t shift or fidget or fill the silence with empty comfort. He just holds me. Steady and quiet. Letting my breathing settle and my thoughts find their own gravity. Letting the ache of it—this strange, disproportionate grief over something small and once-alive—move through me without judgment.
And when I finally look up at him, his eyes are alreadyon me.
“Why didn’t you come here?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
There’s no accusation in it. Just something soft and deeply vulnerable sitting behind the question. A trace of hurt, maybe. A suggestion that he’s wondering if he did something wrong.
“Theo filed the paperwork with me,” I say quietly. “So I figured… he’d know more.”
He nods, once. Understands it. But the look in his eyes doesn’t fade. It lingers—something a little too tender, a little too bruised.
“And,” I add, “you and I still have to talk.”
That knocks something loose. He straightens slightly, like he’s bracing himself. But then, without a word, he steps forward. It’s slow, deliberate. His arms still around me, guiding me back, inch by inch, until the back of my legs meets the edge of his desk. Then, with that same careful reverence he always reserves for me—like he knows I’m a fragile ecosystem in and of myself—he lifts me gently onto the surface.
Now we’re face to face. No craning, no hiding. Just the two of us in this quiet, sunlit office that suddenly feels too small for everything between us.
He plants his palms on either side of my thighs, caging me in without ever making me feel trapped. And then he leans in, his gaze steady and anchored entirely to mine.
“What do you want right now?” he asks. His voice is low, assured. “Because if you want to spend the day mourning Damon, I’ll drive you to your dorm—or my place—and we’ll do just that. If you want answers, I’ll call admin. If you want to talk, we’ll talk.”
Something in me stutters at the simplicity of it. At the sheer gentleness of being asked. No pressure, no expectation. Just Holden, standing in front of me, offering me every version of himself without condition.
I nod once, slowly, as the pressure behind my eyes rises again—not from sadness this time, but from the staggering relief of being given that kind of choice.
