I take a second to revel in the shade of his eyes—those deep, molten browns that have haunted me since day one. They’re the color of something you crave: rich chocolate, slow-brewed espresso, the last flicker of warmth before sleep takes over.
“I want to talk, Holden.”
He frowns, head tilting. “You sure? We don’t have to do this now.”
I shake my head. “No. Holden… I hated you when we first met.” His brows twitch, but I keep going. “Or more like—I hated thatyouhated me. And I couldn’t figure out why. But now it feels like… maybe we’re finally in the same place. At least about what we want. So I need to know what’s been holding you back.”
His eyes drop to my mouth before fluttering closed, and when he leans in, his forehead touches mine like a weight or a vow.
“I never hated you, Trouble,” he says, voice wrecked. “I hated what you did to me.”
I blink. My breath catches.
“From the moment you opened your mouth in my lecture hall—a rambling little thing, you were—I haven’t had a single quiet thought.” His lips ghost mine, so soft it’s almost not there. “I tried to keep my distance but, every time, you found a way to get closer. And I hated… how badly I wanted tolet you.”
His voice roughens on the last word, like it scrapes against something inside him.
“You should’ve run. Seen the mess. The sharp edges. The way I close up. You should’ve walked away. But you didn’t. You stayed. Worse—youchased. And that made it impossible.”
A tear slips down my cheek, hot and uninvited. I thought he resented me. Tolerated me at best. That I was a complication he didn’t want. But now…
“Is that why you call me Trouble?” I whisper.
He smiles, just barely. “That, and your constant state of proverbial pickles.”
A laugh escapes me, thin and wet and real.
But the next question is harder. “If you wanted me… why push me away?”
His expression shifts. Something tightens. He steps back and runs a hand through his hair—his go-to tell for stress. And now that I know how his hair feels between my fingers, the motion makes something ache low in my chest.
He hesitates.
“You need to know,” he says finally, “that I’ve never—not once—doubted your brilliance. Or your ambition. You’re capable of anything, Coralie. You’ve earned everything that’s come your way.”
The compliment lands harder than I expect. Because I believe him. Because it’s not flattery for the sake of it—he means every word.
But then he exhales, slow and heavy.
“When I was in undergrad, one of the sharpest people I knew was this girl, Carla. She dated a graduate student—Phil. Really decent guy, respected in the department. She got a massive internship at theend of her degree and everyone—everyone—said it was because of Phil. That she’d slept her way into it.”
My breath catches.
“It happened again. And again. Different names, same story. Women I looked up to—fuckingbrilliantwomen—got reduced to who they dated. Got written off as tagalongs.”
Malcolm’s face flashes through my mind. How his name ended up on the papers I wrote. How I became the assistant instead of the architect.
My throat tightens.
“That’s…” I shake my head. “That’s devastating.”
He nods once, then steps forward again. His thumb traces the edge of my bottom lip, soft but certain.
“Do you understand now?” His voice breaks a little. “Why I kept pulling back?”
I nod slowly, chest heavy.
“There’s no world where I could stomach watching someone discredit you. Undermine what you’ve earned. You’re the fastest mind I’ve ever met, and I’d never forgive myself if being near me—beingwithme—dimmed that.”
