Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
There’s a moment during most social experiments, somewhere between observation and interference, where you realize the line you drew isn’t a boundary anymore. It’s a suggestion. And a blurry one at that.
You tell yourself you’re still being objective. That the data matters more than the feelings. That science is bigger than you, than him, than this.
But, as it turns out even, well-controlled experiments fall apart when the subject starts to feel and, suddenly, you can’t tell if what you’re seeing is cause or effect.
Once the variables shift, there’s no clean reset—only the slow realization that you’ve already crossed into the territory you swore you'd only observe.
Since that afternoon with Holden, the variables have very much shifted and my thoughts have narrowed into an obsessive loop: wondering how Damon is doing, wondering what my next meal will be, and—most persistently—wondering what Holden was going to say to me.
It’s not complicated, really. Just three thoughts orbiting with perfect repetition, forming a neat little mental cul-de-sac I can’t seem to exit.
To cope, I’ve confined myself to a reliable rotation of environments: the lab, where Damon remains my safest point of contact; the classroom, where the variables are mostly predictable; and the solitude of my dorm, where there are no unexpected interactions, no eye contact, no near-confessions.
Here’s something I wish someone had warned me about: being good at complex academic problems does not make you any more equipped to solve emotional ones.
If anything, it sets you up for failure.
The smarter you are, the more you believe you should be able to reason your way through anything.
That if you’re observant enough, patient enough, you’ll reach a conclusion.
But sometimes the data is corrupted. Sometimes the entire dataset is you.
And you’re not objective. You’re not even consistent.
You’re a walking outlier with a margin of error wide enough to drown in.
In other words, you’re unreliable as hell.
So, in the spirit of controlling what I can, I’ve pulled back from everything I can’t.
The upside of all this self-imposed distance from society is that I’m doing well.
Academically. Classes are almost insultingly easy.
I catch myself breezing through material that used to take effort, and I allow a small, silent kind of pride to live there.
I don’t know what Holden thinks of me, or what he meant to say that afternoon, or whether it would have changed anything.
But I know marine science. I know octopuses.
I know Damon—who has finally started letting me test a few things without staging a small-scale rebellion. Small wins, right?
It’s with that same determined focus that I make my way to Dr. Kymbert’s lecture.
The last two were cancelled in favor of prerecorded sessions from previous semesters—understandable, considering she’s been deep in legislative hearings to push a ban on reef-damaging SPF chemicals.
But today, no last-minute cancellation appeared in my inbox, and I couldn’t be happier.
Two full hours of hearing her speak, maybe even a glimpse into the latest developments in her coral protection research?
Honestly, that counts as a good day in my book.
I claim my usual spot in the second row, grateful for the leggings shielding me from the chair’s sandpaper upholstery, and for the sweater jammed in my tote, because the AC in this room is on a personal vendetta against anyone dressed for the tropics outside.
Students filter in with that slow-burn chaos unique to lecture halls—some brave the front, others cling to the back, keeping track of escape routes.
A girl I vaguely remember from a lab on cetacean blubber insulation takes a seat two spots over and gives me a shy, exhausted smile—her eyes rimmed red in the specific, shared language of too many deadlines and not enough sleep.
I return it, mine reading something like I feel you, girl. We can cry next to the centrifuge later if you want. For a second, I think she might actually be telepathic—her grin blooms wide, eyes suddenly bright—but then I catch the shift of her gaze, following movement behind me down the aisle.
Which is when I realize I’m not the one lighting her up. Not even close.
Indeed, I like Dr. Kymbert as much as the next science nerd, but the kind of grin spreading across that girl’s face isn’t usually caused by groundbreaking coral policy.
It’s more likely to be the six-foot-something gravitational force making his way to the front of the room.
Holden walks with that unhurried, faintly bored confidence of someone who’s always being pulled into rooms, never chasing them.
He’s in olive cargos and a black waffle-knit long sleeve, a white T-shirt barely peeking out underneath.
It seems like every time he walks into a space, the air shifts, like the entire radius is recalibrating to make room for him.
He sets his laptop on the small table at the front, then leans against it, arms and ankles crossed in synchronized dismissal of the room around him.
“Alright, settle down,” he says, not raising his voice, and yet the room does exactly that.
From day one, I’ve understood that Holden was some kind of campus folklore.
The kind of person people had opinions about.
The stories followed quickly—about his exacting standards, his critiques that border on clinical dissections.
Even Maya and the girls have heard of him—and they’re more likely to talk about anything related to hair products than scientific journals.
But assuming that’s where the legend ended?
That was my mistake. The first flag should’ve been when Dr. Kymbert introduced him not just as her TA, but as a contributor to her published research.
Then there was Summer, casually dropping the fact that he turned down a fully-funded post-doc because the labs “didn’t meet his standards.
” He hasn’t even finished his PhD. Since then, I’ve heard whispers—he graduated undergrad early, published in Nature at twenty, even rewrote a protocol that's now used department-wide.
So, yeah. If he acts allergic to incompetence, he’s got the credentials to back it up.
“Margaret—Dr. Kymbert—is busy with her coral legislation,” he says, the use of her first name still grating in ways I won’t unpack. “So you’re stuck with me today.”
A quick glance around tells me the general reaction is… not exactly devastated.
But I’m barely hearing him now. Because between what he meant to say the other day, what I assumed, and everything neither of us actually said—there’s another version of us suspended somewhere in the negative space. A draft that never got written.
And yet the version of him standing right here, arms crossed, gaze sharp, is the one that’s undoing me.
I’ve recently come to the somewhat mortifying realization that I find Holden attractive.
Not in the way I used to find Malcolm attractive or how, objectively, Theo is.
No. This is more... involuntary. Physiological.
Cellular. He walks into a room and my heart rate does things it shouldn’t.
There’s something about him that overrides basic logic.
Even his distant, vaguely irritated energy doesn’t help. Or maybe that’s part of the problem.
And look—I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t even think about romance while at Mānoa.
My scholarship, my future—they’re not exactly built to withstand crushes.
Especially not on someone who is very much taken.
Holden is dating Summer. The end. No exceptions, no bending the rules just because I want to.
Another woman’s heart isn’t collateral for mine.
But I’m also done lying to myself.
I can’t pretend his gaze doesn’t make my stomach twist, or that his brain doesn’t spark something in me I haven’t felt in years. I can’t keep pretending his touch hasn’t been rerouting my REM cycles on a nightly basis.
So here’s where I’ve landed: Holden is and will always be the very thing he studies. A storm front. Something powerful, precise, and fleeting. Every time he passes through, he throws off my schedule, my pulse, my entire way of thinking. But storms don’t adjust to the things they interrupt.
So while, yes, I’m painfully aware of the physiological chaos Holden triggers—cognitive dissonance, loss of verbal function, a highly inconvenient uptick in heart rate—I’ve also grown tired of the constant miscommunication.
Not just between us, but the kind that loops within my own head, rewiring logic into static.
That’s where I draw a line. I’ll admire from a responsible distance—acknowledging that the male currently occupying the front of the classroom is, unfortunately, chemically compelling. No romantic hypotheses. No unnecessary entanglements. Just controlled exposure to a known academic hazard.
“—Taylor. Something on your mind?” His voice cuts in, low and close, pulling me sharply back to earth.
I blink up at him, heart stuttering. He’s only a few feet away, and I have absolutely no idea how long I’ve been staring.
“Oh, um, no,” I stammer. My cheeks go warm, and the cetacean scientist next to me lets out a not-so-subtle giggle.
He nods and turns back to the front of the room, where he settles on the edge of the desk again.
“Listen,” he says, exhaling like this whole interaction already exhausts him. “I’m aware some of you may have questions about my work, research, or anything in between. Now’s the time—before we start.”
Immediately, hands shoot up—more than I’ve seen all semester. Questions pour in about his publications, fieldwork, and academic milestones. He answers with crisp efficiency, skipping only what he chooses to leave behind. No flinching, no fumbling. Just that infuriating clarity.