Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
We talk a lot about boundaries in research. About the lines you’re not supposed to cross. But the thing about lines is—they’re rarely permanent. A strong enough current, a small shift in temperature, and suddenly what was once safe, distant, academic… isn’t.
For all the careful planning my TA has done over the last few months to teach us how to handle field complications and the unpredictable, I’m fairly certain he didn’t account for the possibility that one of those complications would be his student.
And, diving incident aside, I don’t think I’ve actually been a problem in the field. If anything, I’ve noticed it—the flicker of approval in his eyes when I get things done before he asks, when the data aligns with the hypothesis again and again, as if the ocean itself is on our side.
But since I almost let my lungs implode underwater, he’s been… a little more watchful.
Dr. Kymbert joined us the day after the accident—meaning two days ago—and we’ve gone on at least three dives since.
Quietly, away from the others, Holden pulled me aside to ask if I still felt comfortable diving.
If I’d noticed any signs of trauma surfacing.
It didn’t feel like he was trying to keep me out of the water—it felt like he was making sure I wasn’t staying in just to prove something.
I told him the truth. That it would take more than a gear malfunction to keep me out of the ocean. Especially now that we’re diving a reef system, and cephalopods have been showing up by the handful.
And so he lets me do my thing. He’s always nearby—checking my gear before each dive, sometimes double-checking everyone else’s too—but he doesn’t hover.
When I tell him I’ve got it, he backs off.
And when I’m locked in, zeroing in on something promising—like the variable I’ve been tracing between coral growth rates—he quietly gives me space, always careful not to step into the work I’m doing.
It’s subtle, but I notice it. I notice him.
And it’s... endearing. More than I’d like to admit.
I don’t know if it’s intentional, if he’s pulling back because he doesn’t want to overstep, or if this is just how he manages his worry. Either way, I appreciate that he never takes the decision away from me. Not after the gear failure. Not after everything.
Dr. Kymbert hasn’t brought up the unfortunate diving event, and though she rarely dives with us—preferring to stay on the boat or back at camp—I’ve started catching the same quiet flicker of approval in her expression that I’ve grown used to seeing in Holden’s.
She’s been generous with her encouragement, asking me to walk her through my process, pointing out when I pivot quickly or adapt in the field.
When things go wrong—and they do—she watches how I respond.
She knows about what happened at the Crown. I’d been tempted to ask Holden not to tell her, but I didn’t need to. Her only concern has been my well-being, never my competence.
And the assistant who sent me down with faulty gear? I haven’t seen him since.
Part of me wanted to talk to him—to reassure him it wasn’t entirely his fault. Or maybe just to tell him I was okay. Technically, it was his fault, but I should’ve double-checked. I know better. Every diver does.
But the one time I brought him up to Holden—just mentioned him in passing—was enough. The look he gave me made it clear: I wouldn’t be seeing him again.
Now, somehow, there are only two days left to the trip.
Despite everything that’s happened—or maybe because of everything that’s happened—it’s been the best experience of my life.
The work, the exhaustion, the sunburns that sting beneath my rash guard—it’s all part of it.
And the Galápagos? They’re not just beautiful.
They’re elemental. Sacred, almost. No amount of scientific detachment or objectivity can really prepare you for the way these islands press into your memory, rearranging you a little.
Academia teaches you about resilience, about pushing through.
It teaches you how to make deadlines through tears, how to format your suffering in 12-point Times New Roman.
But fieldwork—being here—is something else entirely.
It teaches you remembrance. Of what came before and what might come after.
Of the fact that no matter how hard you try, some things are out of your control—and others are yours to carry, to protect.
A cuttlefish drifts past me, its fins rippling like silk caught in slow-motion wind.
I stay still, watching the shimmer of its chromatophores shift.
It doesn’t know me, won’t remember me—but I’ll remember it.
These brief encounters, these shared seconds of space…
this is why I came into this field in the first place.
I offer it a small wave, then push up toward the surface.
The moment my head breaks through, a cheer rises from the boat.
“Congratulations!” Dr. Kymbert calls out, cupping her hands around her mouth. “That was your final school-sanctioned dive. Fantastic work from all of you.”
I swim to the edge, catch Mateo’s extended hand, and haul myself back on deck.
I’m still dripping when Holden shows up at my side, silent but efficient, helping unbuckle my gear and set it with the others.
His hands linger on the strap at my shoulder for just a second longer than necessary—but maybe I imagined it. I’m not sure anymore.
Dr. Kymbert steps forward again, her clipboard tucked under one arm.
“As a reward for your hard, unpaid labor, we’ll be visiting the giant tortoise habitats tomorrow.
” A few people cheer louder. “And,” she adds, “while I did originally plan for you all to spend this afternoon reviewing data, Mr. Wilkes”—she glances his way—“has convinced me to let you rest. Given the, uh, trying few days we’ve had. ”
Everyone turns to Holden like he’s just sprouted a second head.
He doesn’t look up from stowing the gear. Just shrugs and says, “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”
That gets a round of laughter, including from Dr. Kymbert herself.
I risk a glance his way—and find him already watching.
I don’t let myself look long enough to read his expression.
It’s easier that way. Cleaner. When I woke up the morning after the incident, I half expected him to be gone again, the way he’s been nearly every morning since we got here.
Always out the door before I stir, always a shadow trailing the sun.
But no. He was there.
Still sitting on the floor beside the bunk, just like he’d been when I closed my eyes.
Only now he had a pillow wedged behind his back and a blanket pulled haphazardly across his lap.
His head still rested close to mine, near the bedframe.
One arm lay across his chest, the other—dangerously, heartbreakingly—near my hand.
Like the final pose of a man who’d tried to stay awake and lost.
My throat tightened at the sight.
I hoped he hadn’t slept like that all night. Hoped he wasn’t hurting because of me. And that’s when I made the first mistake of many: I touched him.
I ran my fingers through his hair.
It wasn’t planned. It was impulsive and soft and everything I’d wanted to do for days.
Maybe even weeks. His hair was thick, sun-warmed and roughened slightly by days of saltwater and wind.
I let myself smile—just for a second—at how peaceful he looked.
Like this was the only state in which I’d ever get to see him unguarded.
Like his features had been carved into restfulness by sleep instead of the usual discipline.
But then he opened his eyes. And though I could’ve sworn—sworn—he leaned slightly into my touch, the frown that followed hit like a slap.
“What are you doing?” he said.
He didn’t move away from my hand. But he also didn’t soften. And that was enough.
I froze before pulling my fingers back like I’d been burned. Mumbled a sorry I meant in every possible way. I shouldn't have touched him without his consent, no matter how quiet and harmless it had felt. The guilt was sharp.
He tried, after that. Asked how I was feeling, if my head still hurt, if anything felt off. But I’d already started packing my exit. I grabbed my wetsuit, ducked into the sixth cabin to change, and went straight to breakfast, my throat thick and my heart somewhere under the soles of my dive boots.
Here’s the thing: I’ve been having feelings for Holden.
What they are, I can’t name. Not entirely.
I don’t know if they’re shallow crushes or deep-rooted fault lines.
All I know is that from the moment I realized it, to the moment I embarrassed myself trying to say it out loud, to all the clumsy ways I’ve tried to exorcise those feelings since—they’ve refused to die.
They just… persist.
Holden can be hot and cold all he wants.
He can push me away, ignore me, hint at distance, and then reel me back in with a look or a word.
He can tell me to let go. But unless he says it—unless he looks me in the eye and tells me he wants nothing to do with me—then some piece of me is going to hold on. Whether I like it or not.
And maybe that’s pathetic. Maybe that’s a clear violation of the Barnacle Rule or whatever survival instinct is supposed to protect my heart.
But I’m used to attachments being one-sided.
Cephalopods rarely get attached back. They're brilliant and strange and emotionally unreadable.
I can respect that in a man-shaped animal just as much as I do in an animal-shaped genius.
But still—I need to protect myself.
Whatever this is, whatever it almost is, it’s been slowly, steadily pulling me under. An inch at a time. And the more time I spend around him, the harder it is to keep my feet on solid ground.