Chapter 9 #2
I blink, hard, as if my brain needs a second to reconcile the man in front of me with… this new context. Not that I need any more familiarity with him—my senses already memorize him on contact. The scent of wood and rain. The quiet heat of his presence. The way he fills space without even trying.
“Oh. Hi,” I say, a little caught. “You’re the one who taught her about octopuses.”
He glances away briefly, then meets my eyes again. “Guilty.”
She hops down and holds up my phone to him like it’s a prize. “Look! She has an octopus named Damon. He does puzzles and hides in tunnels and plays peekaboo!”
Holden leans in to look, and I watch his expression shift into something I wasn’t prepared for—softness. Real, bone-deep fondness, the kind that speaks of bedtime stories and scraped knees and knowing a kid well enough to predict their favorite snack before they say it.
“That is very cool,” he tells her, smiling in a way that rearranges my internal organs. “But I promised your mom I’d have you back by four, and it’s almost that.”
She pouts, the dramatic kind only a kid can get away with, and hands me back my phone like it hurts. “Thank you for the videos,” she says solemnly. “And the oyster stuff.”
“Anytime,” I answer, managing a small smile.
She gives the tank one last longing glance, then takes his hand without hesitation. He starts to lead her away, but halfway into the crowd, he turns back—just for a second—and meets my gaze.
A slight nod. Maybe a thank you.
Then they vanish into the tide of people, leaving me standing there, phone in hand, pulse in free fall.
And, okay. I’ll admit it. I’m going to need to open a new folder in the Holden Wilkes Hotness Archives, because apparently “good with kids” is a category I didn’t know I had.
A few hours later, and it’s like none of it ever happened.
A small army of volunteers swept through in the last hour, breaking down every booth with practiced efficiency.
Tanks were drained and secured, tables folded, signs unscrewed from poles and packed into trucks.
The whole thing disappeared like a tide rolling out, leaving behind only damp footprints and a few stray zip ties buried in the sand that I picked up immediately, of course.
The beach is empty again—for now.
It’s not likely to last, though. The university must’ve been feeling particularly benevolent, because tonight’s event is a full-on student bonfire, open to anyone within a thirty-foot radius of a dorm or a college ID.
Which means locals, tourists, and at least one guy with an acoustic guitar are bound to show up, too.
A bonfire crew’s already at work, stacking massive wooden beams—easily twice my height—into a kind of geometric pyre, perfect for burning and over-photographing. It’ll be a full blaze by nightfall, and judging by the cool breeze coming off the water, we’ll need it.
I check the time. If I want to make it to the event—and I do, because Maya has made it extremely clear that declining one more invitation to “interact with other living beings” will result in my slow and painful death—I don’t have time to run back to the dorm and change.
I’m still in my black biker shorts with the university crest stamped down one leg, and a matching tank top that now smells faintly of seawater.
The temperature’s already dipping a little, so I veer off the sand and head toward the sidewalk, scanning for the nearest ABC Store.
If I’m lucky, they’ll have a hoodie that doesn’t scream I went to Waikīkī and all I got was this overpriced sweatshirt, but I’m not holding my breath.
I’ve only made it a block before I hear my name cut through the chatter of the boulevard.
“Coralie, wait up!”
I turn to see Theo jogging toward me, all easy energy and crooked smile. I stop, let him pull me into a hug—the kind I’ve come to expect from him, from Maya, from Kai. Familiar. Safe.
“Where are you going? The bonfire starts in, like, an hour.”
“I know,” I say, returning the smile. “But I didn’t bring any spare clothes, and I’m scared I’ll be cold. I figured I’d grab a hoodie.”
He tilts his head. “I could lend you mine, if you want.”
It’s a good offer—cheaper, cozier, environmentally sound. But I’ve been meaning to replace my one university hoodie anyway. So I explain that, and Theo nods like I’ve just presented a well-reasoned thesis. “Okay, okay. I know a place. Come on.”
We fall into step together, weaving through foot traffic as he starts telling me about the chaos at his booth. Apparently, things devolved into a full-on competition between a group of teenagers trying to sink the plastic surfer in the ripple tank as fast as possible.
“It was hilarious,” he says, shaking his head. “Holden took him out in, like, three seconds flat.”
I ignore the small shift inside me at the mention of his name. “What was up with that woman yelling at the two of you?”
Theo lifts his hands, exasperated. “Oh my god. She kept going on about her own real sailboat and how it’s never flipped.
She said our experiment made no sense. Holden tried explaining the variables involved in the demo—currents, slope, boat design—but she just cut him off and told him to get back to class. ”
I blink. “Please tell me she didn’t know who he was.”
“She definitely didn’t,” he laughs. “Honestly, it was kind of amazing. Good for his ego. Keeps him humble.”
I snort because nothing keeps Holden humble. But the thought of someone dismissing him like a student with too much attitude and too little knowledge is admittedly funny.
A few minutes later, we reach the Rip Curl tucked between two bigger, glossier fast fashion stores. Theo holds the door for me, still talking.
He stops walking when a guy who looks almost like his DNA was copy-pasted from Theo’s jogs over, all sun-bleached hair and board shorts. The two of them launch into a handshake that starts like a high-five and ends somewhere in the realm of secret society.
“What’s up, bro?” Theo says, and just like that, he becomes the California mascot I imagined when I first met him. “Coralie, this is Nate. He’s a pro surfer too.”
Nate flashes me an easy, playful smile before diving into some inside story with Theo—something about reef breaks and last week’s swell—while I linger awkwardly nearby.
I use the opportunity to scan the store: rows of wetsuits, rash guards, graphic tees with curling waves and island maps.
I love this about Hawai‘i—how the ocean isn’t an accessory here, or a weekend novelty.
It’s embedded. Present in their closets, in their language, in the rhythm of daily life.
Eventually, Theo breaks away from Nate and waves me toward the women’s section.
“I’ve got, like, a ridiculous discount here,” he says with a wink. “So this’ll basically cost you a coconut.”
I raise an eyebrow but follow him to the rack, flipping through hoodies on one side while he does the same on the other. He pulls one out a few moments later—bright blue, soft-looking, with a curved block-letter Rip Curl logo across the chest.
The second I see it, I know it’s the one.
He notices the look on my face and lights up. “Yeah, that’s perfect for you, Freckles.”
Without asking, he finds my size—accurately, annoyingly—and hands it over. I head toward the register while he trails behind, clearly pleased with himself.
Nate’s back behind the counter now, and he scans the hoodie, automatically applying Theo’s discount like it’s a reflex.
“Oh, no need for a bag, bro—she’ll wear it now,” Theo says casually, as if I’m some regular fixture in his life and this is normal.
I blush. Deeply.
Nate grins, rips the tag off cleanly, and passes the hoodie back to me. I slip it on over my tank top, the fabric warm and just oversized enough. Both of them give me matching nods of approval, and I have never wanted to disappear into the stitching of a sweatshirt more in my life.
Still, I thank them both and walk out with Theo beside me, pretending I’m not hyper-aware of the fact that I’m wearing something he picked out for me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Moments after, we’re both working through fast food sandwiches I insisted on buying to thank him for saving me a few dozen dollars on a quality hoodie.
We make our way back toward the beach as the sky shifts into watercolor mode—deep orange bleeding into purple, the last rays of sunlight melting into the horizon.
I spot my friends easily—Maya’s oversized shirt flapping in the breeze, Soren sitting with her knees pulled to her chest, Kai standing with sunglasses on despite the sun’s imminent departure. They’re exactly where they said they’d be in the group chat.
Theo and I walk over, finishing the last bites of our sandwiches and dropping the wrappers into a nearby trash can.
He flashes that infectious, golden-retriever smile as he greets the group, even though it’s his first time meeting Maya and Soren. Somehow, it still feels like he’s known them forever.
Then his brow pulls slightly. “Your friend Alana’s not coming?”
Maya’s grin twitches—barely, but I catch it. So does Soren, who lifts one eyebrow in perfect mischief. Theo picks up on it too.
“What?” he says. “I’m just asking.”
“She has work tonight,” Soren replies, far too innocently. “But she’d like to see you again too, surfer boy.”
And unless my eyes are broken, Theo actually blushes. It’s fleeting—blink and you’d miss it—but it happened.
Still, his smile returns quickly, and he sidles up next to Kai to dive into what sounds like an ongoing conversation about who got caught hooking up in the student union last week.
I guess everyone here has a reputation. Theo’s the heartthrob genius who also happens to surf better than most. Maya’s the effortlessly cool alt-girl with a playlist for every mood.
Soren has never once been boring or quiet, by choice or accident.
Kai knows every secret on campus before it becomes one.
And me? I’m… fish girl, probably.
We find a spot on one of the massive driftwood logs scattered around the bonfire, now fully ablaze and reaching toward the stars.
Embers spiral up like fireflies, and the whole scene looks like something out of a tourism board fantasy.
I expected soft acoustic strumming, maybe a kid with a ukulele trying his best, but no—there’s a plastic folding table set up a few meters away, and a girl with a laptop and headphones is DJ’ing like her life depends on it.
Maybe it does. She’s good. Great, actually.
Everywhere I look, someone’s living out a college cliché: dancing in the sand, throwing a football under firelight, clumsily flirting with strangers and, of course, roasting marshmallows.
We fall solidly into that last category.
Theo commandeers one of the sweet treat bags and cracks open a chocolate bar like he’s hosting a cooking show.
Kai attempts to shove his directly into the flames, which, naturally, ends in combustion.
“Yeah, that’ll happen if you do that,” Maya deadpans, as Kai flails to extinguish his mistake.
The rest of us laugh while he sulks and tries again, this time with slightly more patience.
I’m just about to bite into mine when the log shifts under new weight.
We all glance over as Holden appears, pushing his hand through his hair and scanning the scene like he just wandered into the wrong room.
He’s swapped his earlier clothes for a black hoodie and dark jeans.
Casual, but still crisp. His watch catches the firelight, scattering color across his wrist, and for a second, he just…
freezes. Like we weren’t expecting him. Which, to be fair, I wasn’t.
“Hi?” he says, the question mark fully audible.
Theo snorts. Maya offers a two-finger wave.
I give a small nod and return to my s’mores.
The group conversation adjusts around him, like the tide shifting to account for a new current.
Theo and Holden fall into their own rhythm almost immediately, trading stories in shorthand, while Kai periodically hollers across the circle for their opinions on whatever debate Maya and Soren are currently locked in.
It’s chaotic, cozy, and warm in every possible way.
And somewhere in the midst of all that, I see it: why Theo and Holden work as friends.
Maybe even as best friends. Theo’s all noise and charm, always moving, always reaching.
Holden is restraint made human—quiet, deliberate, with a mind that never seems to shut off.
But together, they make sense. Like opposing forces engineered to balance each other out.
One turns the volume up, the other sharpens the focus.
Eventually, Theo drifts off to greet someone near the DJ booth and Maya, Soren, and Kai are deep into an impassioned argument about the pink tax. Soren’s standing now. Kai’s taken up the role of debate moderator-slash-hype-man. Maya’s winning.
Holden stays on the log beside me, quiet, watching the fire like it’s telling him secrets only he can hear. In this light, the angles of his face are less severe. Softer. The burnished copper of the flames brings out new shades in his eyes—warm, molten, complicated.
He’s beautiful. Not just sharp-jawed and symmetrical, but striking in a way that’s entirely unfair. Especially now, post-volunteer-shift, hoodie-wearing, fire-lit Holden.
As it turns out, I have a very specific type—the kind of guy who wouldn’t know a social cue if it bit him on the ankle, but can rattle off the Krebs cycle from memory.
Which is horrifying. I’d rather admit that pineapple belongs on pizza than say, for the second time in a week, that I’m crushing on my TA.
But I am.
I don’t know what to do with that, so I go for the easiest option—I offer him the new s’mores I just made. “Want some?”
He glances at it, then at me. “No, thanks.”
Before I can even process the rejection, Theo drops back down onto the log between us.
“Hates chocolate, remember?”
Right. I did know that. I think I was so determined to believe Holden was not a psychopath that I forgot the one actually concerning red flag: chocolate aversion.