Chapter 2
When my highlighter rolls toward his side, he stops it with a fingertip and slides it back, eyes still on his page.
“Thanks,” I say.
He nods once.
Kai launches into a story about his shift that has both Theo and I giggling and, unfortunately, more than one person telling him to lower his voice.
“It’s only my second day, right. First rush? Four Alexes. I go, ‘Alex with oat?’—all four grab. I try by last initials instead and one guy goes, ‘It’s in the app.’ His screen says alex_420. Cool, super helpful.”
Theo snorts. I choke on my latte.
“Then the label printer dies, so I’m writing on wet plastic with a marker clearly not meant for that. Ink slides right off. I start calling drinks by modifiers like a lunatic—‘tall caramel, extra hot, too many pumps of raspberry syrup?’—and it actually works.”
Holden, without looking up: “Modifiers over names is standard. Fewer collisions.”
Kai points at him. “See? Takes a genius to get it. Anyway, a toddler tips a fistful of coins into the tip jar and then takes one back like it’s a bank. Manager catches me laughing and assigns me to ‘lid duty.’ Lid duty is just… lids. For an hour.”
Another shush. Kai grins. “But hey, I survived. Although now my coworkers call me Alex With Oat.”
Holden checks his watch, and I—purely for science—watch him do just that. Tendons flex, metal flashes, and the forearm–shiny thing combo sends heat skittering through me like a faulty Bunsen.
He starts packing with that exacting efficiency he applies to everything: pen capped, papers squared, chair slid in until it kisses the table.
“I’m late for a lecture,” he tells Theo.
They stand; Theo throws us a grin and a friendly wave.
Holden gives me a single, unreadable nod—dark eyes offering exactly zero data—and follows.
Well. That could’ve gone worse. Right?
“Girl, what did you do to him?” Kai asks, eyes tracking them through the maze of tables.
“What? Nothing. I just… I don’t think he likes me.”
“Yeah, no shit,” he says, scoffing. He sees my reaction and quickly adds, “But I’ve heard he’s tough on students, so maybe it’s not personal.”
I nod, even though I’ve seen him with other people—no one’s handing him the Nobel Prize in Warm Fuzzies, but it’s different with me. Colder. Like he’s actively increasing the distance, not just living in it.
Like I said, I don’t need to be universally adored.
But this feels like an issue I should identify, so I can decide whether to push back or let it be.
Did I unintentionally do something to upset him?
Is there something wrong with me to begin with?
I came here for marine biology, not a slow-burn academic panic spiral.
And yet.