Chapter 7 #3
I don’t push. Mostly because he’s right—it does sound like a place I’d love to visit, and he just casually brought up the equivalent of a marine biologist’s Disneyland.
I launch into a dozen questions about the area—species sightings, tide schedules, the neighborhood—and he answers every one with enthusiasm.
By the time I’ve run out of questions, he’s promised to take me there soon.
The door swings open behind us with a lazy creak, but I barely register it—mid-heist, fork halfway to my mouth with a stolen bite of Theo’s cinnamon roll.
He’s already laughing at something Alana said when his eyes catch on someone over my shoulder.
They brighten immediately, a glint of mischief slicing across his grin as he lifts a hand in greeting.
“There he is,” Theo says. “Took you long enough.”
I turn. And my brain, frankly, never recovers.
Because there he is indeed.
Holden strides into the courtyard, cutting a silhouette that deserves its own Greek myth. Navy athletic shorts, a white tee soft enough to cling in the right places, and—God help me—a backwards baseball cap.
I don’t know who signed off on the backwards hat as a male enhancement device, but they deserve a Nobel.
Something about the flipped brim, the peek of curls beneath it, the implied ease and confidence—it’s weaponized masculinity.
Somewhere deep in my brain, a tiny voice whispers “objectification is bad,” but it’s promptly overruled by the rest of me.
I choke. On cinnamon roll, on oxygen, on my sense of composure. Alana doesn't miss a beat, patting my back gently like she's seen this exact medical emergency play out before.
“Girl,” she murmurs under her breath, “you did not prepare me for this.” She told me she’d seen him around campus before, but I doubt anything could’ve prepared her for this specific image. This, right here, is not a TA.
Holden’s halfway to our table, smile boyish and bright—when he sees me.
One step stalls. The light in his expression flickers, tightens, shifts into something unreadable.
And that’s when I know. Theo texted him. He came here for breakfast. But he wasn’t expecting me.
His gaze flicks to Alana in a quick, practiced sweep, then back to me—cool, collected, but not quite blank. There's something still burning in the silence between us, something sharp and electric. Or maybe that's just the hat.
“Theo,” he says finally, his voice a low scrape. “Didn’t mention we had company.”
“Oh, did I not?” Theo says, unapologetically pleased with himself. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”
I manage to swallow and rejoin the land of the breathing just in time for Holden to drop into the seat directly across from me, all long limbs and tension and that hat. That damn hat.
And just like that, the entire table has turned into a very specific kind of battlefield.
Micro-battle loss number one: the cinnamon roll I’ve been sneak-thieving was, in fact, not a community pastry, but Holden’s. To his credit, he doesn’t say anything about the bite marks. Still, I briefly consider lodging a tater tot into Theo’s sinuses for not keeping me from eating it.
Micro-win number one: I show them the playlist Maya made for me, explaining that every single one of my actions earns me a new song—and it triggers a deep laugh from Theo, a full snort from Alana who never gets tired of the story, and—miracle of miracles—a chuckle from Holden. A real one. Low and surprised.
Scratch that. It’s a big win.
“How do I apply to be co-editor of this masterpiece?” Theo asks, still scrolling.
“Absolutely not,” I say. “It’s already bad enough she plays Good Luck, Babe! every time I head to…”
Anywhere within Holden proximity. “Class.”
Alana nearly falls off the bench, shoulders shaking. Theo and Holden look like golden retrievers watching a squirrel—alert, amused, completely unaware of context. Theo keeps scrolling, eyebrows lifting here and there—until he stops. His grin turns downright evil.
“Wait—why is Rock That Body in here?” he asks, pointing to the Black Eyed Peas’ song.
My cheeks go nuclear. I snatch the phone back. “That’s irrelevant.”
And boom. I’ve lit the fuse.
“You want to tell the story,” Alana says sweetly. “Or should I?”
“Alana, don’t. I will change all your autocorrects to moist,” I threaten.
Theo snorts—loud enough to turn heads—and Holden covers his mouth, very unconvincingly, as if that’s going to hide the smile fighting its way out. I’m tempted to let all of this unfold without a fight just to see more of it.
Alana shrugs. “Eh, worth it.”
She turns to them like she’s onstage at an open mic. “So. Last week, Coralie decided it would be an excellent idea to snorkel through a bait ball.”
“I was hoping to see a shark,” I mumble.
She side-eyes me. “Anyway. She does it, makes it out alive—but realizes some of the fish got stuck in her wetsuit.”
Holden’s eyebrows start rising.
“And instead of, I don’t know, removing them like a normal person, she starts wiggling like she’s a cup of Jell-O, and Maya—bless her—immediately cues that song.”
I facepalm so hard I consider triggering a mild concussion just to escape the moment. For a second, I think I might have knocked something loose in the space-time continuum because—what is that sound?
I peek through my fingers and there it is: Holden. Laughing.
Not a scoff. Not the begrudging half-chuckle he sometimes gives when forced to acknowledge human joy. This is a real laugh. Deep and rough-edged, the kind that starts in the chest and takes a few seconds to shake free. His shoulders actually move with it. His eyes crease. He looks… human. Happy.
And it’s a problem. Because this version of him—sun-drenched, in civilian clothes, not grading my lab report—could convince me to rethink entire belief systems.
The Barnacle Rule? Yeeted. Launched straight into the Mariana Trench, never to be seen again.
Nearly an hour later, we give up our table to make room for the lunch crowd. A small part of me mourns the loss—not just of the food, but of the strange, unspoken truce that had settled over the table. Somehow, against all odds, it had been easy to be around Holden. Enjoyable, even.
That illusion shatters the moment we step outside.
Holden says nothing. Just shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts and angles himself to the outer edge of our group, leaving me between Alana and Theo.
Like proximity alone had been the problem and distance is now the cure.
I feel the shift immediately—the temperature drop, the way conversation thins in the air around him.
He’s quiet, but it’s not the calm kind. It’s taut, restrained. Controlled with effort.
Theo, oblivious or reckless, glances down at me and drapes his arm across my shoulders again.
“So, Freckles. How does it feel to be this tiny?”
I gasp, feigning offense. It’s not like he’s wrong. He and Holden clear six feet easily, and Alana isn’t far behind. Compared to the three of them, I’m downright compact.
“Feels like I’m the perfect height to kick your knee out from under you.”
Theo laughs and lifts his free hand up, mock-injured. “Feisty, huh?”
He glances at Holden, clearly fishing for backup or a laugh at the comedy unfolding.
But Holden doesn’t blink. His face is unreadable—flat and still in a way that’s somehow louder than shouting. His jaw shifts once. A muscle ticks. His eyes stay locked on Theo’s arm like the gesture is some kind of provocation.
Theo’s grin stutters. He blinks, confused. “Hey, man, I didn’t mean it like th—”
“Theo!” Alana calls from a storefront a few steps ahead, waving him over. None of us had realized she kept walking. “You’ve got to come check this out!”
Grateful for the save, Theo offers an apologetic smile and jogs toward her. Which leaves me next to Holden.
I glance his way and find him already looking. Not at me like I’ve done something wrong—but like he’s trying not to do something impulsive.
This is calculation. Frustration. Maybe even—though I might be hallucinating—something closer to hurt.
My heart stumbles. And not metaphorically. The jolt is real enough that I feel it in my chest.