Chapter 18 #2
Since then, I’ve done what I can to put some distance between us. It probably won’t hold—not for long. And it certainly won’t do much to quiet the parts of me that still ache when I hear his voice or catch him watching me when he thinks I won’t notice.
But it’s something. A line drawn in the sand, however faint. A reminder that I can, if I must, live a life where Holden Wilkes exists only in the margins—an annotation in the corners of my story, and nothing more.
We walk back to camp, heavy gear in hand, and drop it all near the cabins. Thankfully, the oppressive afternoon heat has given way to thick, dark clouds, offering the kind of break only impending rain can promise.
“I’m crashing today,” Tristan says, unhooking his gear and stretching his arms overhead. “No way I’m doing anything but snoring for the rest of the afternoon.”
“Bro, same,” Mateo chimes in, already peeling at the neck of his wetsuit. “Coralie, can you help me unzip?”
I step behind him and tug the zipper down, freeing him from the clingy neoprene. He throws me a wink in thanks before disappearing into his cabin.
From the corner of my eye, I spot Holden walking back to camp, deep in conversation with Dr. Kymbert. I take that as my cue and slip inside my own cabin to change.
I pull on soft black biker shorts, my worn green University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa t-shirt, and sneakers. The sky looks close to splitting open, but I don’t care—this is our last night here, and I want to walk the beach one last time.
Dr. Kymbert mentioned a black sand beach on Floreana, the grains made from the same basaltic lava rock that lines the tidepools. There’s no better time to see it.
And if Holden does notice I’m missing from camp—if—he’ll probably check the tidepools first. That is, assuming he’s still interested in finding me after the other morning’s unfortunate… lapse on my part.
I reach the beach about fifteen minutes later, following a hand-painted trail sign that points toward the shore. It's breathtaking.
The sand is almost charcoal—fine, soft, and glinting silver where the light hits it just right.
Despite the overcast sky, the water remains shockingly turquoise, a kind of brightness that feels unreal under clouds this thick.
A few sea lions are scattered lazily along the shoreline, unmoved by my arrival, and massive volcanic boulders break up the smoothness of the sand, each one standing at least half my height.
I peel off my socks and sneakers, leaving them in the brush near the path, and step toward the water, letting it wash over my toes. I’ll miss this place. I already do.
It’s the same ocean—technically—the same Pacific I’ve swum in back in Hawai‘i. But it doesn’t feel the same.
The difference is undeniable. Not just in temperature, but in energy.
The waters off Hawai‘i—especially near campus on the south shore—are more stable, buffered by coral reefs and shaped by long-period swells.
But here, the currents shift faster. The Galápagos sits at a crossroads of upwelling systems and converging equatorial flows.
Cold water rises, nutrient-rich and alive, and everything about it feels raw. Older. More primal.
It’s not better or worse. Just different. Hawai‘i is where I study. But this—this was my first ever fieldwork experience. No safety nets like the familiar bench of the lab. Just you, the data, and the reminder that nature doesn't exist for your convenience.
I walk slowly along the shore, the contrast still striking even after all these days—the black sand, the green foliage, the impossible blue of the sea. The visual dissonance that first stunned me into silence is still here, still visceral. And maybe that’s what keeps pulling me back to Holden, too.
We’re a contrast like that—soft and sharp, familiar and volatile. We shouldn’t make sense, but sometimes, against all odds, contrast is exactly what makes something unforgettable.
Lightning splits the sky in jagged streaks of violet and blue, tearing through the clouds like something ancient and furious. I flinch, the flash echoing behind my eyes. Reflexively, I glance back toward the edge of the beach where I left my shoes.
And freeze.
There, just in front of the bush line, stands a tall figure in dark jeans and a white t-shirt, the kind of white that glows even under a storm-lit sky. Holden.
He’s still. Hands in his pockets. Not moving toward me—but he doesn’t need to. Even across the stretch of black sand and seawater, I can feel him. That watchful intensity. The unmistakable weight of his eyes on me, carving their way through the wind and the upcoming rain.
My heart kicks once. Maybe twice.
But self-preservation first. That was the promise, wasn’t it?
So I turn my back on him. Face the open water.
Let the current tug at my ankles and pretend I’m not meters away from him.
Pretend he’s just another phantom made of salt and longing, conjured by my traitorous brain—which, of course, would picture him like this.
Drenched in the storm’s light. Wearing jeans that fit too well and a shirt that stretches over his muscled chest.
Very subtle, subconscious. Very subtle.
I take a few more steps down the beach, letting the familiar scent of the brewing storm wash over me. That’s the thing about rain—the smell is the same everywhere. No matter where you are in the world, petrichor is a warning. A promise. A memory waiting to snap.
My toes press tiny crescents into the soft sand, the water curling up to kiss my ankles in a quiet, steady rhythm.
“Coralie.”
His voice is close. So close I might not believe it if it weren’t for the unmistakable heat of his body just behind mine. A foot or two at most. His presence fills the space between us like he’s always meant to be there.
I don’t turn. Don’t move. I keep my eyes on the horizon as it darkens with the promise of rain. But I feel him. Every breath he draws brings him a little nearer, his chest rising just enough to graze the space behind my head, warming the air between us until I feel feverish.
“Can I touch you?”
God.
I want to scream yes. Of course you can. You foolish, impossible man. It’s the only thing I want—your hands, your heat, your control undone. But all I do is nod, small and careful, afraid that if I breathe wrong, the moment might vanish.
He steps closer. Closer. And then his chest is at my back, solid and unfairly warm.
His arms come around me slowly, one after the other, threading across my waist like gravity.
His hands are large, his forearms tense—muscle and restraint held tight beneath skin.
His chin finds the top of my head, settling there with terrifying gentleness.
“I’m sorry.”
I should respond. I should ask what for—what part, which version of the distance he’s been giving me lately.
Because for all the ways Holden Wilkes has pulled back, held off, measured himself with clinical precision—he has always answered me. Even if it took a while. Even if it came like this, wrapped in apology and riddle.
He sighs—and there’s only so much a girl can do when the man who ruins every other man for her is this close, arms around her like a promise, voice low and ragged with regret.
So I turn around.
He doesn’t let go. Just loosens his hold enough to let me move, then drags me back in like he can’t help himself.
His hands settle on my lower back, warm and grounding.
I keep my eyes on his chest for a moment, just…
taking it in. The width of him. The heat.
The way his fingers flex like he’s trying not to pull me closer, like he’s fighting something off—and losing.
He’s only ever held me like this when I was half-drowning. This time, there’s no rescue. No excuse. Just the press of his body against mine because he wants it. Wants me.
A raindrop lands on my forehead. Then another. Slowly, steadily, the sand darkens beneath us. Our clothes dampen in patches.
“What do you want, Holden?” My voice doesn’t come out small like I thought it might.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes in. Out. Like he’s working up the nerve to rip something wide open.
“It doesn’t really matter what I want.”
I still don’t look at him. I keep my focus on his chest, my fingers drawing slow, absent-minded circles over the wet cotton clinging to his ribs—if only to keep myself grounded.
“It does. And you know it. Or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Will you look at me?”
“Why?” I ask, stubbornness edging the question. I remind myself I’m an evolved, rational woman. I also remind myself that rationality is currently losing a long, slow war with want.
“Because I’m tired of staring at the turquoise of the water,” he says, voice low, wrecked. “It doesn’t stand a fucking chance next to your eyes.”
My head snaps up.
He has a gift—a cruel, miraculous one—for making me question my grip on reality.
I stare into his eyes, mine ping-ponging between his—searching.
There’s no teasing, no hesitation. Just quiet, steady truth.
My lips part slightly at his words, and the moment his gaze flickers down to them, I spin away.
He doesn’t stop me. I step toward one of the dark boulders dotting the shoreline, slick with rain. But I can feel him behind me—following.
“You can’t say things like that to me,” I snap, spinning back toward him. The mix of anger, sadness, and impossible longing hits me like the tide.
“I know.”
“And you have to make up your mind,” I say, my voice tight, rising.
“I know.”
“You don’t know everything, Holden!”
He huffs a hollow laugh. “Yeah. I know that, too.”
The fight drains out of me. There’s a difference between not knowing and refusing to know. With Holden, I live somewhere in that gray space in between.
“Please,” I breathe. “Just this once… tell me what’s in your head. No riddles. No lines with two meanings. Just you.”