Chapter 12 #2
I settle for a quick coffee, cold and perfectly sweet, and sit down alone to drink it—no phone, no books, no studying. Just a few minutes to breathe and reset my nervous system before heading back to check on Damon.
When I get back to the lab, it’s quiet and empty.
I’ll be honest and say that that’s exactly how I like it.
No one to side-eye my Petri dishes, no one loudly rehashing last night’s Rainbow Warriors game, and definitely no one manhandling Damon without knowing the first thing about cephalopods.
Just because you’re a marine scientist doesn’t mean you respect all saltwater creatures equally—a disappointing but persistent truth.
So, yeah, right now I’m glad it’s just Damon and me.
I drop my bag by the bench and skip the lab coat—I’m not here to run experiments or collect data. I just came to sit with him. To check in. To be here.
I lean my forearms on the counter near his tank. “Hey, buddy.”
He’s still pale, that muted color that makes my chest tighten, but a slow ripple of lavender moves across his skin when he sees me. He reaches out with green—his locomotive arm—and pulls himself closer to the glass.
“I missed you too,” I say, even though I spent half of yesterday glued to his side.
For the next stretch of time, I test a few things casually: his response to my fingers, his interest in a couple familiar puzzles. He’s a bit more reactive today—still sluggish, but not as hushed. It’s not a full win, but I’ll take it.
“You know,” I murmur, watching him drag himself up the tank wall, “I thought you looked very handsome in that orange-brown combo you used to rock. What do you think about bringing that look back—”
I stop mid-sentence. My eyes land on the wall just beside his tank.
Weeks ago, someone had scribbled a bit of harmless lab graffiti there: Cephalopods > All Other Invertebrates. I’d added my own contribution not long after—Truth of life. Fight me—and since then, it’s gone untouched. Until now.
There, right beneath our two-part exchange, someone’s drawn a small octopus. Not just any octopus—a smiling one, with comically large boxing gloves. I let out a laugh, quick and real.
The gloves are absurdly disproportionate. It’s nothing short of ridiculous. But there’s something weirdly comforting about it. A silent little back-and-forth, passed like notes in class across time and scribbled surfaces.
“Very on brand,” I murmur to Damon, whose slow side-eye suggests either judgment or disappointment in my taste.
Still grinning, I grab a marker from the bench and lean over the wall. Next to the little fighter, I draw a wobbly cuttlefish holding a sign: I’m with him.
It’s not my best work. In fact, my cuttlefish might look more like a squid, but I don’t care. It’s silly. It’s stupid. It makes me feel, for a moment, like things are okay.
Damon watches me with what I imagine is mild disapproval. But when I glance back, his body shifts slightly, color blooming faintly along his side. A muted amber, flickering in and out.
I watch Damon for what must be an hour or two, jotting down notes in the margins of the chaos Theo and I scrawled into my notebook yesterday.
Day octopuses like him are a bit of an anomaly in the cephalopod world—diurnal creatures, active during daylight or crepuscular hours, unlike their nocturnal cousins.
It explains his brighter coloration, and why he’s usually awake when I visit the lab.
He reached his full size a while ago, though he’s still on the smaller end for his species. Some can grow arms up to three feet long, but Damon has always been more compact. Scrappy. Efficient. He doesn’t waste energy trying to impress anyone. Like me, I guess.
When he finally calms down and retreats to the corner of his tank—clearly tired of my endless chatter and enrichment puzzles—I take it as my cue.
I pull out my laptop and open the tabs I’ve been avoiding.
Sure, I’d probably be more comfortable working in the library, or at the café, or even holed up in my dorm, but it feels good to be here instead.
Damon nearby. The hum of the filtration system.
The faint echo of saltwater lapping against the tank. This kind of quiet feels earned.
I dive into readings, papers, figure drafts. Time blurs again. My screen fills with citations, annotations, half-written paragraphs. Hours must pass before the cursor starts to lag and the screen flickers faintly, like it’s just as tired as I am.
I groan softly and pat the side of my overheating laptop. “Come on, little buddy. Just one more figure. You’re so close. Push through and I’ll let you sleep.”
The fan kicks into high gear like it’s fighting for its life, and I make a mental note to finally use my student discount and replace this poor, exhausted machine. Eventually.
When my laptop finally surrenders—screen flickering, fan wheezing—I close it and set it aside on the counter. I slide off the stool, intending to grab my tote from the bench across the room.
But the second my feet hit the floor, the world tilts.
Everything spins. The lights overhead smear into streaks. My knees slam against the cold tile hard enough to rattle my teeth. Nausea rushes up, thick and immediate, and bile sears the back of my throat.
What—?
I grip the cabinet in front of me, fingertips digging into the metal edges, and press my forehead to its cool surface.
The contact is grounding, if only slightly.
But my stomach is still twisting, my ears ringing, my vision swimming like I’ve been dropped underwater and left to drift.
I’ve only fainted a couple of times in my life, but this feels dangerously close to that.
Shapes blur. The hum of the lab distorts.
Then—footsteps. Close. Then closer.
And a voice, half-muffled, half-a-world away. Like it’s coming through static.
"All I’m saying is she’s the most promising student I’ve seen in a long time. She reminds me of myself a couple years ago. Her mind is brilliant and—fuck. I mean—no, sorry, I’m gonna have to call you back."
The voice cuts out as fast as it appeared, and I keep my eyes squeezed shut, unwilling to look up, unwilling to see the room shift again.
Everything is loud and far away at once. The cabinet doors feel like they're swaying under my hands. I hold on tighter. Just breathe. Just stay conscious. Just don’t fall apart completely.
Seconds later, a warm, steady pressure lands on my lower back, wide enough to span the whole thing.
“Coralie? Coralie, can you hear me?”
The voice floats to me through molasses. Close, but not quite in my orbit. Like we’re not sharing the same space-time continuum.
Then it comes again, closer now—right near my ear.
“I’m going to pick you up, okay?”
I manage a small nod, eyes still clenched shut to keep the spinning at bay.
His touch shifts—one arm curling behind my knees, the other supporting my back—and then I’m weightless. Not for long. Just long enough to be lifted, shifted, and set gently on the stool, my back guided to lean against the cool counter behind me.
I blink one eye open.
Holden is standing in front of me, brows pulled into a stormcloud frown, his eyes scanning me like he’s running diagnostics.
“Hey,” he says, voice low but urgent, as his fingers gently tilt my chin toward him. “I’m going to need you to talk to me. What’s going on?”
“Hi, Holden,” I whisper.
The nausea is still there, curling low and persistent in my gut, but the heat coming off of him—his nearness, his scent—grounds me. That familiar mix of rain, cedar, and whatever brand of handsome he uses as cologne.
“Hi, Trouble,” he says back, soft but serious.
When I open both eyes fully, he’s still there, still watching me, face tight with something between irritation and worry. Maybe both.
“What’s happening?” he asks again.
“I… I don’t know,” I manage. “I stood up and everything kind of tilted.”
His hand lifts, the back of it brushing across my forehead. Then two fingers press against the side of my neck, right where my pulse is fluttering like mad. His skin is warm. His touch is frustratingly gentle.
The fog starts to thin. Unfortunately, that only makes me more aware of just how close he is. The firm lines of his torso are nearly brushing mine, his presence a living thing in the small space between us.
But the look on his face is all business. No teasing, no smirking. Just concern.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
“Ate?”
“Yeah, you know—food? Generally ingested through the mouth?” The sarcasm is light, but there’s a thread of sharpness underneath.
I blink. “Um. I had a coffee. After class.”
He groans, low and annoyed, the movement shifting his body even closer, and for a second his chest grazes the tip of my nose. He backs off with a curse under his breath and strides to the front of the lab.
I watch as he yanks open the drawer of the desk he uses when he supervises. He pulls out a protein bar, tears the wrapper halfway open, and walks it back to me.
He doesn’t simply hand it over.
He puts it in my hand.
Then he closes my fingers around it, gently but firmly. “Eat.”
I glance down. Double chocolate. The exact kind I used to stash in my bag for emergencies—like this one. Only I haven’t had time to restock lately.
He guides my wrist until I take a bite, only letting go once he’s satisfied. Then he crosses to his backpack—tossed on the floor near the door—and retrieves a sleek black water bottle. The same one from his truck after the bonfire.
He places it in my other hand. “Drink.”
I sip. “So bossy.”
His jaw ticks. “Why didn’t you eat today, Coralie?”
I sigh, the ache behind my eyes beginning to lift. “I forgot. I wanted to check on Damon, and… I guess I lost track of time.” I pause. “What time is it?”
“It’s almost five-thirty.”
“Five-thirty?!” I sit straighter in disbelief.
He nods. Still unimpressed. Still watching me like he’s waiting for the moment I keel over again.
No wonder the world decided to flip upside down. A sixteen-ounce caramel sugar bomb and zero food, hours of screen-staring, and general worry-induced negligence.
Holden doesn’t say it—but his eyes do the speaking for him.
A few minutes later, the spinning stops.
I no longer feel like I’m orbiting outside my own body.
Holden sits on a stool in front of me, arms folded, legs braced wide like he’s preparing to catch me if I tip over again.
He watched me eat the first protein bar.
Then handed me a second and didn’t budge until I finished that one, too.
It’s a little mortifying, honestly. But at this point, it seems like Holden will always find me in moments of need—like the universe handed him a map titled “Coralie’s lowest points. Please intervene.”
“How’s this for a proverbial pickle?” I say, trying for a smile, something casual.
It’s our first real moment alone since I cornered him in his office and told him I liked him.
Like-liked him. And while the circumstances could be better—I’m pale, sweaty, and probably still a little green—it still feels… important. Loaded.
He snorts, but when his gaze lifts, it lands directly on mine—and something in it tightens. His smirk fades.
“You haven’t been sleeping.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Your eyes,” he says, nodding toward Damon’s tank. “You’re wearing the same shade of purple this guy sometimes turns when he’s moody.”
I let out a weak laugh. Okay, fine. I did notice the dark circles in the mirror this morning and tried to convince myself it was just the bathroom lighting.
“I’ve been worried about him,” I say quietly.
“I know.”
He turns to Damon’s tank, studies the slow ripple of movement inside.
“How is he?”
“He seems… okay. Better than yesterday, I think. Thank you for helping. I know you were probably busy, but…” I trail off. “It means a lot.”
“It’s not a problem,” he says, eyes still on the tank. “That's why I’m here, actually.”
I freeze, water bottle halfway to my lips.
“You came to check on him?”
Holden rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. I know you and Theo ran through a bunch of things yesterday. I just thought I’d take a look. See if there’s anything else.”
How’s Coralie taking it? If she’s not doing well, I can be there in an hour.
The message flashes in my mind. And Theo’s voice follows, low and certain:
I’ve seen him care about a lot of things. People. Work. Family. Me. And now you.
Could Holden care about Damon because I do? The thought stirs something sharp and soft in my chest, but I push it down. Holden’s already drawn the line. Already told me—gently, firmly—that there’s a boundary. A limit. And trying to move past it again would only leave me raw.
“That’s nice of you,” I manage.
He looks at me then, long and full of meaning, and his jaw tightens like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“We placed a vet request,” I say, shifting the subject. “Theo helped me, but… he said it might take a while.”
Holden nods. “I’ll see if I can expedite it.”
“Really?”
He hums, like it’s nothing. Like caring is just something he does, quietly, thoroughly, without needing a thank-you. I could hug him. I won’t. But I could.
I hand back his water bottle and slowly slide off the stool. My legs hold, barely, and Holden’s hand hovers near my waist—not touching, but close enough to catch me if I sway. I don’t. So he lets me go.
I toss the wrappers and pick up my tote.
“Do you have a tendency to save everyone this often?” I ask.
“No.”
“So you’re not secretly Superman?”
He chuckles. It’s low and warm and hits me square in the chest. “No, Coralie. I’m not.”
“Is it safe to assume kryptonite won’t work on you?”
“Not the green crystal kind, no.”
He says it completely serious, and I snort, having reached the full extent of my comic book references.
I grin a bit wider. “That’s disappointing.”
He shakes his head, the edge of his mouth twitching a bit now, like he’s trying not to smile.
I thank him again, promise to replace the protein bars, and he waves it off, muttering something about chocolate being overrated anyway.
When I say goodbye to Damon, Holden crouches by the tank, already scanning the settings. Already present.
I don’t know if today’s overall performance would’ve made a limpet proud but, somehow, I feel like I do have something solid to hold onto when the waters get rough.