Chapter 24
He turns to me fully then, his brow furrowed, gaze flicking over my face like he’s scanning for damage. And then—softly, without warning—he lifts his hand and brushes a thumb beneath my cheekbone.
I freeze.
His thumb is rough, callused from hours in the field, and the heat of it is at odds with how gently it touches me.
He wipes away a tear I hadn’t even realized had fallen, and somehow that makes the others come faster.
I hate that. Hate that I’m the one crying, when he’s the one who lost something.
Someone. When I should be comforting him and instead I’m breaking apart beside him like a tide-worn shell.
I don’t have the right tools to fix what he's shared with me, or the training to dissect the psychology of a man like Holden Wilkes, whose brain should honestly be preserved in a museum someday. But this… this explains so much. Why he speaks like every statement is a hypothesis that must be tested twice. Why he won’t act unless the variables are controlled.
Why he’s a TA in Field Problems, of all things.
He carries storms in his past like data points—quiet and devastating. And suddenly, I understand why certainty matters so much to him. Why he doesn’t let people in unless he’s sure of their staying power.
“Holden…” I whisper, but nothing follows. My throat cinches tight around the words I want to say—I’m sorry, you didn’t deserve that, you’re not alone—but they all feel thin and insufficient.
He glances toward the horizon and lets out a breath.
“It’s getting late,” he says, standing. Then, without hesitation, he holds out his hand.
I take it.
His fingers close around mine, strong and warm, and he pulls me to my feet like it’s nothing. I’m about to let go when he tugs me closer—just slightly, just enough.
“You never looked me up,” he says.
I blink up at him. “What?”
He watches me carefully. “Jacob’s accident is online. News stories. Reddit threads. It’s all out there.”
My breath hitches.
He’s not upset, not exactly. Just... curious. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit.
“I mean, I did,” I admit, flustered. “A little. When I first met you. But all I looked at were your joint papers with Dr. Kymbert, a few grant listings, some conference footage… That was kind of it.”
He studies me for a long beat, and I feel myself flush under the weight of it.
“I guess I didn’t want to dig deeper,” I say, more quietly now. “I figured you’d show me what you wanted me to know.”
Something shifts behind his eyes then—not quite surprise, not quite amusement. Something warmer. Softer.
He seems satisfied with the answer, because he nods once. “Let’s go.”
We walk back toward the cabins, his hand hovering near my lower back—not quite touching, but close enough to catch me if I slipped. I don’t.
By the time we reach the site, the tents are quiet, the last traces of conversation replaced by the gentle percussion of waves.
The guides’ larger tent is zipped up behind the cluster of cabins, and the rest of the students have already turned in for the night.
One glance at the moon tells me it’s not even that late.
I step up into our cabin, but Holden stops just below the threshold. I turn back, confused.
“What are you doing?”
He looks up at me, eyes unreadable in the dark, then jerks his chin toward the shared tent.
“Just going to check the perimeter. Make sure no one left gear or food out for wildlife to find. I’ll be back in a bit.”
I open my mouth—maybe to offer to help, maybe just to delay the goodbye—but he takes a step backward and adds, “Get some rest. We start early tomorrow.”
Then he turns and walks away, hands in his pockets, already halfway gone.
I don’t call after him.
Because that’s it, isn’t it? The door gently closing behind something that had just barely creaked open.
The Holden I saw tonight—the one who shared a grief I didn’t know he carried, who sat beside me while the tide pulled at our feet like it wanted to keep us there—he’s not the one who gets to stay. That version of him is a rare occurrence. A flash tide. An eddy in the current.
I step inside and close the door quietly behind me.
Maybe it’s fair. After everything he’s lost, maybe the only way to survive is to keep things sorted into boxes. Clean lines. Labeled categories. Student. Acquaintance. Occasional confidant.
I can’t blame him for wanting to keep those lines clear.
So I won’t mistake his honesty for an invitation. I won’t see the gentleness of his thumb on my cheek and believe it meant something more than what it was—a quiet apology, maybe. A moment of human softness, not romantic promise.
And those tidepools? The creatures inside them will keep adapting, surviving, changing with the ocean—long after whatever I felt tonight fades into memory. The tide will rise again. It always does.
He gave me a piece of himself not to open a door—but to quietly remind me of the one he already closed.
I change quickly and climb into the top bunk, the mattress creaking under my weight. I wait for the sound of his return—footsteps on gravel, the soft creak of the door—but they don’t come.
Instead, I fall asleep to the hush of waves and the echo of his voice in my mind.