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Chapter Text

Your chest tightens pleasantly as you breathe in deep draughts of briny air, mist clinging to your tongue and lips, sharp and salty, anticipation of yet another day with your marine friend nudging your footsteps faster over slick cobblestones that echo softly against the buildings that line the street. Dawn hasn’t quite shaken off the night, draping everything in gauzy shadows, stretching slender fingers of soft gold across the rooftops, making you feel the gentle bite of the morning chill grazing your skin in a tingle of needles against your cheeks.

Ahead, the harbor emerges from the last traces of darkness, boats bobbing lazily against moorings that creak and groan like old friends in conversation as dockworkers shuffle around, silhouettes bent under cargo, and in comfortable and hushed chatting somehow overtaken by the screams of seagulls. Among them, your family's ferry waits patiently at its berth, outline illuminated by the muted brilliance of the rising sun — a scene so delicately composed you think it might’ve been painted by Edward Hopper himself each and every time you witness it.

“Hey hey, Elias!” you call, raising a hand to greet the old fisherman, his weather-creased face somehow aging a couple more years while he picks through a tangle of nets with focus.

He lifts his head, eyes crinkling fondly beneath his salt-stained cap. “Ah, mornin’, lass!"

"Brought something with me today. I want to see if it helps with the bait bucket problem."

"Boy is addicted to easy pickings, I doubt that. Wee nyaff owes me half a season’s catch by now.” Elias's rumbling chuckles have warmth rumbling through your chest. “Can’t fault him for his good taste in company when he has treats delivered to his doorstep, though.”

“Nice try,” you say, your tone mock-stern, a smile tugging insistently at the corner of your mouth. “But flattery’s not buying you extra coffee today.”

His laughter echoes briefly before it’s swallowed by the soft slosh of water beneath the docks, and he peers out across the idly rolling tide, affection blending with mild irritation as his fingers start working faster.

"That's fine," he says. "Having you back is enough. My poor boat needed a break from all that terrorizing."

You laugh at that with an embarrassed, heavy heart.

Six months have melted away since you traded your graduation cap for the familiar sight of gulls wheeling above the docks. You’d returned home carrying equal parts eagerness and obligation, drawn back into your father’s orbit, hoping, perhaps, to ease some of the burdens he’d never openly admit were weighing him down.

Leaving for university felt like stepping aboard a departing train, thrilling and dizzying as it rattled toward a glittering unknown named the future. City life was a constant hum you were ill-prepared for — nights brimming with noise, friendships blazing bright but fleeting as sparks — but somewhere along the way, that excitement quietly dimmed, and in its absence grew a tender longing, whisper-soft, for a simpler past, back when your world was defined by the comforting cadence of the ferry schedule and the friendly bustle of seasonal visitors.

So, under the spotlight of shame, coming home felt oddly disjointed at first, as though stepping back into a photograph that had stubbornly refused to fade, preserved, untouched by time — the docks still busy at dawn, fishermen hauling in their catches, schoolkids racing, backpacks swinging wildly, the scent of fresh bread spilling from the bakery door at exactly eight sharp every morning. Life moved here in steady, predictable rhythms, each beat familiar enough to lull you into comfort, yet somehow magnifying a subtle, restless niggling deep within your chest.

Because beneath the comforting yet burdensome familiarity that's a bed of nails at night, you can't shake the quiet sensation that returning was more retreat than progress.

You feel it most keenly when whispers trail in your wake, pointed glances exchanged between curious neighbors whose mouths curve around your name like a secret. They wonder aloud — in voices just low enough to feign politeness — about how university might have shaped you, or perhaps, more poignantly, left you unchanged.

You can feel their quiet amusement, the delight in the idea of the girl who once dreamed beyond the island now anchored firmly back in place, tethered once more to the ferry ropes and her father’s stubborn pride.

Not that Dad would ever breathe a word of needing assistance. Pride is his quiet strength and silent curse, a barrier more solid than the island's rocky coastline. You'd notice him sometimes, catching fleeting moments when he believes no one was watching — rubbing the weariness from his shoulders after hefting crates heavier than he’d admit, wincing just a little as his knees protest bending to secure the moorings, lips pressing into a thin, shaky line. It makes your heart twist like a wet rag, knowing his stubbornness masked vulnerability, and you'd resolved, quietly yet firmly, that your presence would stay constant until further notice.

Besides, the arrangement came with undeniable perks — a roof overhead without rent’s shadow hanging over your head, meals rich with nostalgia’s comforting flavor, and the cradle-like sway and creak of deck boards beneath your feet. It's more than enough compensation, more than fair payment, for the small surrender of uncertain ambitions to the nonjudgmental embrace of home.

By nonjudgmental you mean the weight of being allowed to take time in figuring your stuff out inbetween all the nausea-inducing sessions of admitting to yourself you're absolutely lost and don't have the slightest idea what you're going to do next.

So, yeah. Things are going great.

Still, despite everything, there’s at least one soul whose very presence smooths away any lingering doubts you had about returning home.

Well — perhaps not exactly a person.

There he is, your seal companion of years, lounging right there on the loading ramp as though he's claimed ownership of the whole harbor, proudly blocking Dad’s path as usual.

Today, Raf’s gray coat catches the clementine of the morning sun like liquid bronze, sleek fur glistening wetly, shimmering with subtle gold beneath droplets of seawater, and tiny flecks of fish scales cling stubbornly to his whiskers, the glittering remnants of his breakfast. You try your hardest to summon a stern mask of reprimand to your face — someone needs to teach this cheeky little shit some manners before either you or Dad dive headfirst into the sea because of Raf's sunbathing spot choices — but one glance into his wide, guileless eyes instantly dissolves your resolve into warm-hearted resignation.

With a mock-exasperated sigh, you lean down, scratching softly beneath his chin and tracing scratching circles in the thick fur around his neck, and Raf immediately responds, rolling onto his side and enthusiastically clapping his flippers together like an actor performing a rehearsed trick. You feel like he's Pavlov-ed you into yielding to his desires by rewarding you with cuteness, and burst into laughter, the sound rippling sweetly across the bay.

"Hi, hi, hi, my cutie pie," you coo softly in a sing-song voice that's the usual ritualistic greeting you have for him, smile brightening as you reveal a small stash of dried salmon you'd slipped into your bag. "I didn't forget my promise."

Raf perks up immediately, twisting himself with a delighted wriggle that ends with his tail thumping happily against the ramp, peering upward, eyes large and pleading, more expressive than any puppy’s. A heartbeat later, he's flopped dramatically onto his side, one flipper thrust skyward in hopeful invitation, and your cheeks ache from the persistent grin stretching across your face, but that hardly matters.

For a few joyful minutes, you're lost in a game of enthusiastic 'handshakes,' finishing with good, thorough tummy scritches before starting to feed him.

"Keep spoiling the damn thing, and he'll forget how to fish altogether," Dad grumbles affectionately as he passes by, hoisting another heavy crate bound for one of the smaller islands. You resist the urge to tease him about who’s really spoiling whom around here — considering how easily he gives in to your own puppy eyes — and instead settle for an innocent shrug, shaking the salmon bag, unaware of Raf following the notion with his neck elongating impossibly due to his unbelievable flexibility.

"Aww, come on. Look at that irresistible face! You can't help but want to give him whatever he wants!"

"Mm'begh, egg, ggeaaaghh," snorts Raf, wiggling under your pets, and even Dad is amused enough to pause and raise his eyebrows at the silly seal before moving along.

After a minute of playful petting, you pull yourself upright and stretch, wondering how many fish in the ocean smell this fresh and clean. The scent alone reminds you of childhood summer vacations splashing around, blissfully ignorant of any underlying responsibilities or cares.

"Get your fat cat off the ramp before he trips one of us up."

On cue, Raf slaps a fin theatrically against his rounded belly, releasing a snuffling grunt that sounds suspiciously like a tiny piglet rather than a seal: "Mmpppshh."

"Don't listen to him," you reassure Raf solemnly, as though comforting a wounded toddler. "You’re not fat. You're just… well-built. Big bones."

Your half-serious tone earns you several enthusiastic thwaps of Raf’s wet flippers against your calves, making you laugh despite your best efforts to feign sternness. "UUUUAAAAAAGH!!!"

With an exaggerated sigh, you give in, bending down for another pat. "Alright, easy there, handsome. Time to get to work."

Yet Raf, predictably, sees this only as an invitation for more attention, rolling onto his back once again, flippers splayed wide, belly fully exposed in expectation of being cradled like a newborn. Maybe he just wants another belly rub. Or maybe he senses how much you cherish these little interactions, savoring the warmth of mutual affection like it's as essential as breathing. It certainly seems to keep him lively and robust — after all, you’re with him far more than anyone else. There are countless days spent sharing scraps from lunch, swimming side-by-side from island to island, or teaching him new tricks as thinly-veiled excuses for play. Even Dad has remarked (with a teasing grin that you pointedly ignore) that Raf seems more like your best friend than anyone else in town.

And really, what's the harm? Spoiling a seal who clearly enjoys your company hardly counts as indulgent. It's simply mutual happiness, a comforting addiction you've willingly embraced: the velvety smoothness of dark-gray fur beneath your fingers, the hidden strength of his sleek body, the endearing little huff he gives when your windbreaker tickles his sensitive whiskers. All of it — absolutely addictive.

"You know exactly how unfair this is," you finally giggle softly, deciding to have mercy on your heart (and Raf’s belly) for now. "Come on, buddy."

"Ppppfffrrrshh."

With a playful little bounce, Raf balances briefly on his foreflippers, wobbling theatrically before launching himself gracefully off the ramp into the calm water below, sending a silvery plume everywhere, and he surfaces once, twice, three times — each pretty leap arching through the dawn-tinted waves, always teasing, never coming nearer than a safe distance of about ten feet from where you stand as he glides easily in lazy circles around the ferry’s bow, waiting patiently for you to climb aboard.

Slowly, the bleary-eyed commuters begin filing onto the ferry, faces etched with lingering dreams and shoulders hunched beneath the invisible weight of daily responsibilities, and you greet each with energetic warmth to start off the day, offering an amiable nod and a reassuring smile as they pass.

"Coffee’s fresh if you need it, other beverage options and food are available as well in the passenger cabin's buffet," you inform, trying to be a comforting balm to their early-morning weariness. Relief flashes briefly across some tired eyes as you watch people go in and out with hands that tighten gratefully around steaming cups, savoring the warmth like precious embers that ward off the chill.

The tourists follow closely behind after your usuals, pouring aboard in a cheerful wave of bright-eyed excitement as they clutch tightly to their guidebooks, maps, and expensive cameras, animated chatter in various foreign languages floods the deck and shoos away the remnants of the sleepy calm, their infectious enthusiasm cascading over you, a vibrant hum that makes even the most mundane tasks feel fresh and lively.

A woman leans eagerly across the railing, eyes searching for something in the water, but doesn't break any safety rules. She must be a seasoned traveler. "Will we see the famous seal today?"

You cast her a self-satisfied glance, nodding knowingly toward the shimmering expanse of the harbor. "I'd say the odds are pretty high, given he's basically imprinted on this ferry," you promise, and as though summoned by your certainty, Raf’s sleek form breaches the gentle swell, fur catching the sunlight in an iridescent cascade. "Right on cue — there's our local star."

A wave of delighted murmurs and gasps ripples across the deck, the enthusiastic click of cameras rising like an orchestra chef's signal as Raf begins his performance, slicing effortlessly between waves and drawing dramatic curves through the water, slowing his movements deliberately to let the ferry glide past before starting his 'warm-up laps' again. Tourists are absolutely losing it over getting to see something like this up close, every splash and proud bob of his glossy head eliciting cheers and applause that would scare every single sea animal around the perimeter. But not Raf. He's used to it by now.

"So, everyone — meet Raf!" you call out above the enthusiastic chatter, pointing with a flourish toward the glossy head bobbing in the waves. "He's friendly enough, so don't panic if he hops aboard for a visit. But keep your distance — not because he'll bite, mind you, but because he'll bruise your ego when he pretends you don't exist. He enjoys your admiration strictly from afar. He's a diva like that."

A cheerful chorus of laughter, aww-ing and agreement rings out in response.

Taking advantage of the good mood, you repeat the safery regulations and warnings before you busy yourself assisting passengers, guiding them to their seats and helping stow bags in the compartments tucked beneath. You have to announce the route the ferry will take and how long the stops will be, and then, the ferry is pulling smoothly away from the docks, leaving the harbor behind and setting course over waters shimmering brilliantly beneath the sun.

Several adventurous tourists stake out prime spots along the ferry's edge, though many soon retreat inward, driven away by sharp gusts whipping their hair into tangles and peppering their faces with chilly, sharp salt spray. You stroll leisurely between the seats, pausing here and there for pleasant banter about the scenery, local delicacies, or family holidays gone awry, keeping the conversations is easy and light, and you're met with appreciative nods and smiles.

Out across the waves, sunlight dances like scattered jewels, creating diamond-dust illusions whenever a gust scatters spray towards the sky. Every now and then, Raf's sleek form slices effortlessly through the glittering waves, drawing joyful gasps and delighted pointing from your captivated audience.

To anyone coming aboard for the first time, Raf gives every impression of being charming, approachable — even sociable. A casual observer might assume he’s perfectly at ease with human company, considering how effortlessly he weaves himself into the daily bustle around the ferry, acting every bit the seasoned local soaking up attention. At first, you’d happily fallen for the same illusion, even rejoicing a bit at the idea that he was genuinely warming up to people when he started making regular appearances.

Reality, however, quickly proved less rosy. That endearing exterior was, and still is, hiding a nasty streak you could swear was deliberate, because Raf seems to delight in luring people in, coaxing them into thinking they've made a furry new friend — only to abruptly turn aloof, snubbing them with the ease of a ghoster. It’s as if he takes twisted pleasure in watching visitors wilt in disappointment, and so you've learned to offer friendly yet firm warnings upfront: admire him, laugh at his antics, but don't get too cozy or you’re bound to wind up nursing a heartbreak.

Suddenly, there are gasps among the crowd.

Well, mostly screams at first, before turning into delighted giggles.

"Look, over there!" A child shrieks with uncontainable excitement, sprinting eagerly toward the railing at the ferry’s side deck.

Your head snaps up immediately, and a laugh escapes you before you can suppress it. You didn't think your overly confident companion could still manage to surprise you after so many months spent sharing the sea.

Raf has flopped his way onto the ferry once again. Like he belongs, the cocky little shit. Raf glides gracelessly across the deck, flippers waving with dramatic flair — almost comically bird-like — until gravity decisively interrupts his attempted elegance. His slick body careens straight into a pole, skidding downward with a recoiling thud and ending the journey facedown right beside your boots.

"Oh, so gracious of you to rejoin us, Your Majesty," you tease affectionately, nudging him with your toe. "Seems like you get lazier with every trip. Keep hitching rides like this and we'll have to start charging you."

A squeaky little noise slips from Raf's throat, quickly followed by a sneeze-snort that's frankly too adorable to handle. You can't help yourself — you adore every silly, ridiculous part of this creature with those impossibly round, innocent eyes.

A couple kids swarm over as soon as they gather confidence to approach him. "Can we pet him?"

Look at that. Like clockwork.

With a gentle hand, you stroke his back, fingers gliding down his sleek, slippery fur from head to tail, quietly rewarding him for tolerating the children's excitement. "Alright, Raf is a little jumpy sometimes, so we can only pet him one at a time, okay guys? Remember, slow and gentle. Don't spook him."

One boy bravely kneels, gingerly scratching beneath Raf’s chin, giggling when Raf playfully nudges him with an almost haughty flick of his nose. Another child, more timid, holds out her palm for Raf to sniff and squeals when Raf leans forward to bump her inconspicuously enough to topple her onto her backside. The first wave of curious kids gets the others clustering around when they see there's nothing to be afraid of, and soon enough, squeals are louder than the ferry itself as parents linger close by, protective yet smiling fondly at the playful interactions between their children and the beloved seal.

You know Raf better than anyone, how he's around people — the cautious way he approaches, simultaneously wary and irresistibly curious, how those large, ink-dark eyes study every new movement with intent fascination, watchful yet hesitant as hands reach toward his glossy fur. It speaks volumes about his trust in you that he tolerates curious bombardments of attention every day, only flinching or skittering backward when a visitor's gesture becomes too swift or unpredictable for comfort, just as he's doing right now with these children (whom he's generally more tolerating towards.)

Occasionally though, someone ends up with an accidental nip — never serious enough to break skin, usually just leaving behind a faint pinkish mark and perhaps a startled expression. But thankfully, these incidents are rare, mostly limited to times when you're not around to ease his nerves and mediate with the person who just wants to pet him and most likely (always) in the wrong about boundaries of a wild animal.

And right now, some time after with the fawning of children and parents taking photos in an unofficial queue, you recognize his signals immediately — the way he blows raspberries and starts shifting restlessly — clear indications he's becoming overwhelmed. As soon as you see him squirming to indicate he'll start galumphing away from the eager crowd any second now, you swiftly intervene, encouraging nearby parents to corral their energetic kids and give him some breathing room.

"Alright, that's enough excitement for this morning!" you call cheerfully, ushering everyone back to their seats. "We'll be reaching our destination soon — please find your places and settle in."

As the passengers reluctantly scatter back to their seats and Raf bounces away to get back into the safety and comfort of the sea without even a glance back at you like he's blaming you for his peril, one woman remains beside you, her eyes lingering appreciatively on Raf as he glides effortlessly back into the waves. "You’ve trained him remarkably well."

That comment leaves an acidic residue in your stomach. You've never thought of Raf as an animal you had to tame into shape, or that he needed to be disciplined like a dog. It isn't about interfering with wildlife and never treating him as a pet either (though you also were very well aware). He simply is a companion you were grateful to have in your life that terms like training have always been demeaning to hear pertaining to him.

"Honestly, Raf is the cleverest sea critter I've ever known," you reply with genuine affection, quickly adding, "Though I wouldn't exactly call it 'training.'"

Her eyebrows lift with mild intrigue. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah, nothing formal or complicated. Mostly just treats and encouragement, getting him comfortable around us, making sure human attention is positive for him. Simple stuff," you explain, resting casually against the railing. "He took to accepting snacks from my hand on his own — didn't even have to teach him. He just picked it up naturally, even posing nicely when tourists want photos. Mind you, he used to drive fishermen mad. My friend Elias still swears Raf sabotaged his fishing line out of spite."

Her grin broadens, matching yours, and a strong gust ruffles her blonde pixie cut like fluff from a dandelion caught in the wind. "He sounds ready for the big top. You might just have yourself a circus performer," she jokes lightly. "He seems to put on a real show whenever you're around."

Your smile dims a bit — remembering those early days weren't always so playful. The faint scars on your arm still ache whenever it rains. "I wish," you admit, wrists flexing. "But Raf gets nervous fast and ultimately does his own thing. If he listens to me at all, it’s only because he's comfortable. We grew up together, more or less. Maybe he sees this place as a secondary rookery, I don't know."

She tilts her head in subtle amazement before nodding. "You must really care for him. I’ve never seen someone handle a wild animal so naturally."

"Having his trust is special," you reply earnestly, gaze drifting toward Raf as he circles alongside the ferry, rolling with the waves as though he were just another seabird drifting with the wind. "It's rare to earn that kind of bond with a creature as smart and free-spirited as him. I’m incredibly lucky."

"He really does make one want to believe in selkies," she adds, leaning back against the rail as though preparing for a lengthy conversation.

"Selkies?"

An amused little chuckle answers before words do. "Surely you've heard of them — magical beings said to be able to shapeshift between a seal and human form." Her mouth curves into an odd smile. "It's very sad actually, the stories of the female selkies. They can shed their sealskins at will and take on a human form, but if they lose their coats, they have no choice but to stay ashore forever." She lowers her eyelashes, softening her features. "And even worse — according to lore, some men claim the skins and force the poor women who already have their mates into marriage."

"That's horrible," you reply, swallowing hard. Just thinking of Raf being bound to anyone in such a violent way makes your fists clench instinctively. You may not believe in supernatural fairy tales, but the thought of him being trapped sickens you, even for pretend. "Those men ought to be taken out to sea and keelhauled till their flesh is bloody fish bait."

The image that phrase conjures definitely has her smiling ear-to-ear.

"What about the male selkies? Is the tale genderbent in their case?"

"Well... Selkie men are seducers."

"What?" you almost scream. "That's radically different than—"

"I know," she cuts you off with a reassuring tone. "True to how the society was like back then, they had a lot more freedom. Nothing about coat-stealing or anything. Just women who are unsatisfied in their lives and relationships, also lonely fishermen wives, who summon a selkie lover by shedding seven tears into the sea at high tide on a full moon. And interestingly, those selkie men truly love their human lovers and their offspring. If their genre is romance, the stories of female selkies getting forcefully married are just horror."

"Realism, I guess," you say, trying to wrap your mind around the details.

You briefly picture Raf as one of those legendary beings. Knowing he wouldn't touch any human being with a five foot pole, you imagine it would be nothing short of wishing for a genie in a bottle but summoning a trickster spirit instead.

Chapter Text

Ah, sweet summer festival. You're fifteen.

The entire archipelago is in motion tonight — a grand spectacle brought to life in the unofficial capital Salverna, which is also where you were born and raised, by throngs of locals with visitors pouring in from the mainland for an evening of festivities. Decorated boats crawl like jeweled beetles across the bay beneath a moonbeam sky, torches flickering like amber blossoms amidst colorful lanterns suspended overhead, painting faces in warm splashes of light. Instruments are tuned to perfect pitch, ready to launch into jigs and reels once revelers spill into dancing rings. Children sprint around bonfires with cheeks flushed by sugar, laughter ringing like silver bells in the breeze. Farther along, games fill the streets — prizes stuffed inside balloons perched precariously atop slender sticks, targets waiting to be pierced by dart tips, bobbing heads eager for coins — competing for attention with the delectable aroma of spiced sausage, roasted meat, skewers, sticky cinnamon treats, and fresh fruit piled high for sampling. Even the night's salty breath tastes like sunshine, and despite everything feeling faintly familiar, somehow still manages to seem entirely fresh.

If only you'd been there from the beginning.

No, you were here. The whole day.

At the docks, which is the farthest away from the main event.

Hauling seafood and chasing down lost tourists like some unpaid festival guide.

The family ferry business consisting of multiple vessels is the only one making direct trips between the mainland and the archipelago. Usually, things run smoothly — your parents know this route like the back of their hands, and during normal weeks, the boats run on a fairly consistent schedule with only the occasional minor detour to accommodate delayed travelers. Renting smaller boats out to tourists helps maintain some steady income for maintenance expenses during quieter months, although the real money comes from transporting passengers year-round.

But big events like this summer festival change everything. The mainland port is overflowing with people packed like sardines in a tin, and everyone scrambles for transport space like sharks smelling blood. It's impossible to accommodate every arrival simultaneously, even though Dad doubled the ferry service to operate nearly nonstop — one boat shuttling incoming guests while its twin carries locals back and forth between islands, and even then it isn't enough. People are forced to wait hours for passage, which inevitably leads to chaos erupting.

And the locals ferry doesn't just transport passengers. It hauls festival supplies — crates of seasonal produce shipped to the islands via mainland distributors, stacks upon stacks of boxes labeled FRAGILE in thick black marker, paper fans for the parade, props for the pageant, a seemingly endless list of necessary items for the vendors, bands, food stands, street performers, the barrels of festival cider rolling onto the deck, stacks of pastries needing careful hands to avoid toppling, baskets of flowers meant for decorating stalls that nearly got crushed in the shuffle — you name it — the list of deliveries keeps growing by the hour. And no one has extra hands to spare to deliver all this cargo to its final destinations.

Well, actually, one person does. Namely, you.

It started small. Mom catching you right as you tried to slip away this morning, asking to help with boarding real quick, and if you could take some packages along the way... It was easy to agree, at first — help a few elderly tourists steady themselves as they stepped from the ferry, answer questions from confused festival-goers trying to navigate between islands, toss a sack or two over your shoulder for the vendor working nearby. But an hour later, you were hauling half a crate uphill when one of the wheels broke loose, scattering fireworks across cobblestones in glittering disarray, leaving you running through town chasing them all down under curious gazes of the locals who saw the explosion...

And the moment the ferry docked, suddenly it was all hands on deck. One trip in, another out. Then, next thing you knew, you were the one handling tickets and guiding stragglers toward their destination, organizing groups, shouting helpful tips about what to avoid and what not to eat so you are not about to have people get sick on board and clean off their vomit, answering questions about local attractions and restaurant specialties, calling out to Dad who drove the ferry like it was child's play, warning the older folks and kids not to fall off because the last thing your family really needs is to be sued by someone stupid falling overboard...

And the entire time, you were in the dress you'd picked out specifically for the occasion. Thinking one more trip, and you could finally join your friends in the festivities...

A whole shift later, there are no celebrations awaiting you. No bonfire parties with the music so loud and joyous you could feel it thrumming through the ground, no crowded bars filled to bursting with cheerful singing and dancing, no raffle stalls offering chances to win souvenirs and free meals for years, no fireworks bursting across the night sky so brilliant they chased away the darkness.

Just you with your dress ruined and ripped because someone couldn't watch where they were going while drunk and collided straight into you and left you soaked in cheap beer, and the hem of it torn apart from you desperately trying to fix your mistake after misplacing the boxes of merch you were supposed to haul, again. Your friends probably already enjoying every aspect of the event, laughing their asses off in pure delight without caring for what you missed or had endured all day, knowing you were supposed to arrive with them to witness the greatest part of the summer celebration together.

With angry tears gathering at the inner corners of your eyes, you let the bags drop onto the dock with a harsh thump, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Maybe you're expecting an argument. Maybe you want to pick a fight because the frustration had been stewing ever since you woke up today and demanded release. Or maybe you hope your father would give you permission to go enjoy your own life, rather than force you to suffer his. But none of those comes to pass. Instead, he merely glances up with a tired look, holding your resentful stare before sighing heavily and scrubbing his face wearily with calloused, wrinkled hands.

“You said it would be quick,” you snap, voice shaking. “You said I could go like hours ago. The day is over!"

You choke back the wobble in your tone, biting harshly into your lower lip, hoping it'll prevent tears from leaking out even though it hardly hurts enough to distract you.

"Look, we're in the middle of peak season..."

"Which means peak profit for our business! Couldn't you have just hired someone extra to fill in?! Why did it have to be me?!"

"No other staff is available on such a short notice, especially during a big event." Dad shrugs weakly in apology, the gesture lacking any defensiveness or remorse. He looks drained, exhausted. And still, his priorities remain firmly fixed elsewhere. "Sorry, honey. Next week I'm hiring additional staff permanently, but for now — just one more hour, okay? You know we don't extend our services after the night falls and that's why—"

“No!” The frustration spills over before you can swallow it down. “It’s never ‘just a little longer.’ It’s always one more trip, one more errand, one more thing! I’m always the one stuck here!”

Dad frowns and straightens his spine slowly like a looming anime villain, wiping sweat from his brow. "Don't raise your tone on me like that, I'm not one of your little friends. This is nothing. When you become captain, you'll have to endure far more work."

"I did everything you ask and suddenly my tone is the issue?!" You gesture wildly at your ruined dress, at the damp stains and torn fabric clinging to your skin. “Look at me! I was supposed to be there with everyone else, and now I can’t even show up like this—”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Dad's voice turns sharp, exasperated. “It’s just a dress.”

"And now everyone probably hates me because I've skipped yet another celebration and ghosted them!" you huff and puff like an enraged bull despite his interruption.

"What's going on?" Mom hurries over from the harbor shop, stepping between you and your father before tempers flare even further. She takes in the scene at a glance and sighs deeply — though whether out of disappointment or irritation, you can't tell — carefully setting aside several stacks of receipts. "Are you two seriously bickering about nonsense when you should both be working?"

“I’m not being dramatic! I’m sick of this!” You throw your hands into the cold, humid sea breeze as though casting your complaints upon the tides, unable to keep the tremble from your fingers or the tears from streaking down your face. Hot drops patter against the faded wood planks beneath your feet. "“I work just as hard as you do, I never say no, but the second I want something for myself—"

Mom immediately gets what's going on, and alerts you to lower your voice by pointedly widening her eyes and thinning her lips. The entire dock is witnessing the argument and turning their heads to listen in at this point, but you don't care. Everybody should hear about this injustice.

"Yes, honey, I know," Mom hisses, "And we appreciate how hard you're trying, believe me. But — just one more trip, alright? Your friends will wait a bit longer for you, won’t they? Don't forget this isn't just about you. The archipelago depends on us running our business steadily and reliably."

And there it is. That unspoken expectation, that quiet assumption that you’ll always choose responsibility over what you want. That you’ll always understand.

Your throat tightens, choking back the bitterness burning in the pit of your stomach, and for a long moment, neither you nor your mom break the silence, and her stare remains fixed somewhere above your shoulder. Only Dad says anything, grunting a vague affirmative that tells you nothing more than your mother did; work must come first, whatever personal sacrifice must be made for that to happen.

You step back. “Forget it.”

“Honey—”

“I said forget it!”

You're running hot and cold, the rush of blood in your ears don't let your parents' protests in as you rush into the only place where you can be alone right now, the ticket counter cabin with the "CLOSED" sign on it, slamming the door shut behind you loudly and letting the cool glass barrier isolate you from the rest of reality. It's just you inside. There's a desk, empty paperwork piled neatly at the corner, a cash register. An old computer screen covered by dust. Shelves crammed with stacked-up folders and manuals. A window overlooking the harbor. This is also the place to leave your belongings at before clocking into work, just beside the locker of where the attendant usually leaves theirs.

On a whim, you snatch up your jacket and backpack before fleeing out into the crowd again. It's so easy to lose your parents along the wharf because of the teeming masses.

Your phone is buzzing rapidly in your bag with Dad and Mom both probably threatening to drag you back by your ear, so you take it out and switch to airplane mode before tossing it back in with a grimace. You're not allowed to be out this late without supervision (much less sneaking away from work), but right now, there's not an adult in existence that could compel you to walk willingly back into this mess. Screw it. Being grounded for life isn't any worse than being imprisoned on this stupid island forever anyway, you think, huffing quietly in protest as you stomp down the street. Besides, if worst comes to worst, you can spend some time with Aunt Leen. At least she wouldn't judge.

The festival feels a million miles away. You can’t go there, not in this state, stains everywhere, smelling like fish and sweat and regret, dress ripped apart. So, instead, you end up wandering along the rocky beach near the outer edge of town, in parallel to the protected seal rookery islet offshore and well beyond the boundaries of the town proper. The bright, swirling glow of the firework display across the water glints in the dark, mingling with distant stars and overshadowing the full moon, reflecting off rippling waters like flickering embers dancing across a glossy obsidian surface. The waves roll gently across sand and stone in soothing rhythmic whispers whooshes that pull you onward through the night like invisible ribbons drawing you back into the present.

This was always your favorite place as a child — wild and beautiful. An unclaimed stretch of wilderness stretching beyond the public access point, filled with coves and tide pools that felt like hidden kingdoms tucked away from the rest of the world. Here, among the jagged rocks, washed smooth by centuries of ebbing currents, you sit on one flat boulder, bare feet lapped at by the high tide and shoes by your side, frustrated tears dropping into the sea, staring absently off towards the seal islet floating peacefully in the distance.

You remember trying to swim out there years ago, despite having been strictly forbidden from venturing close to not disturb them. What would it be like, to be out in the open sea instead of tied to this isolated little community? To see something other than the same faces, places, and names repeated ad nauseam for all eternity, as though nothing changed no matter how many seasons passed? What would it take to break free?

"Ugh!" The sound bursts free before you can clamp your jaw shut, a ragged groan against clenched teeth as your palms scrub fiercely across your damp, salty cheeks.

Before you can start ranting into the night like a madman, your turmoil is shattered by a sudden, piercing cry like metal scraping stone ripping through your tangled thoughts. Your head jerks upward, pulse quickening into a painful drum-beat. Something is terribly off. Someone's hurt, panicking—or worse—maybe drowning?

But where?

You blink frantically, scanning the surrounding coastline, but the thick curtain of night refuses to offer clues. So you rely on your ears and follow the keening through the beach, stumbling hastily across damp sand, uneven rocks and slippery seaweed patches alike, nearly slipping on slimy barnacles embedded in the crevices between each massive stone and fighting hard to balance every step, all the while ignoring the scrapes accumulating on your soles from sharp pebbles digging into tender flesh and flaring in protest at every bit of impact.

Then, unmistakably—

A high-pitched, squealing shriek erupts out of the ocean — like the frantic deflating of a balloon twisting violently apart in midair.

Your stomach drops. The sound is frantic, terrified. Unmistakably animal.

And it's coming directly from the water.

At last, you spot the source of the commotion — about fifty feet offshore, just beyond a tangle of blackened driftwood clogging the shallows: Moonlight catches on slick, gray fur, the seal’s body bobbing helplessly, its hysteric movements hampered by the thick snare of a fishing net and heavy with debris, the tangled mess constricts tight, dragging it downward each time it fights to resurface.

Seals can drown. You know that much. You’ve heard Elias muttering to Dad, thick with disgust, after cutting loose yet another pup ensnared by abandoned traps — relics of poachers who refuse to acknowledge sealing was banned around here nearly thirty years ago.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

Your mind stutters, paralyzed for a breathless instant. What do I do? What do I do?

There’s no time to think.

You’re moving before reason catches up, scrambling over slick, uneven rocks as brine stings the scrapes blooming across your bare feet. Your pulse slams against your ribs. In one frantic motion, you strip off your windbreaker, fling your bag aside, and plunge into the waves without hesitation. Salt explodes in a cool rush over your skin as you kick off from the seafloor, paddling hard, muscles burning with every stroke.

Next thing you know, your arms are locked tight around the drowning seal, grappling to haul it toward shore as it thrashes wildly, overwrought beyond reason and twisting all it can to land a blow with brutal strength you wouldn't expect from a round and inflexible body like that. Flippers beat against your chest, claws scrape at your arms, and its ragged cries tear through the night like something feral and furious. It doesn’t understand you’re trying to help — it only knows fear.

Somehow, impossibly, you make it.

Every muscle in your body screams in protest as you drag the tangled pup onto the shore, collapsing beside it in a gasping sprawl, limbs weak and trembling. Your lungs gulp down air that tastes like victory, the sweetest breath you've ever taken.

And then—

The seal’s shrieks reach a fevered pitch. It flails vigorously, flinging itself against the unyielding net, snapping, fighting, tearing at the fibers with blind desperation.

That’s when you see it.

The moon-desaturated dark liquid pooling beneath its body, sinking into the wet sand in sluggish tendrils.

Blood.

"No! Stop that, stop!"

You scramble upright, stomach at your throat, hands grabbing frantically at the writhing seal to keep it from thrashing itself into worse injury.

"Hey, hey — settle down! Stop moving — please! You're making it worse!"

It doesn’t listen. It fights harder.

Panic and instinct are what fuels its every move, and the more you hold on, the more fiercely it resists, wails cutting straight to the center of your chest, high and desperate, feeding your own fear in a vicious cycle. Its pulse is hammering beneath your hands, a wild, terrified beating of a bird's wings matching your own as its breaths come fast, erratic, interrupted by harsh snorts and shuddering yelps. The pup is almost one singular muscle beneath your grip, trembling and taut with the primal need to flee.

"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," you chant, the words spilling out in a frantic loop, cracking under the weight of utter desperation of not knowing what to do even as you're repeating you're there to helo. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Just let me help — please — fuck, what do I do — ow!"

Pain explodes up your right forearm before the scream even leaves your throat.

Teeth. Deep. Sinking into muscle like fire.

Your body jolts with the instinct to yank away, but you don’t. You can’t. One wrong move and you’ll scare it even more, maybe make it clamp down harder. Tears blur your vision, breath coming in ragged gasps as you bite your own molars together, forcing yourself to go still.

And then — so does the seal.

The aggressive lashing out ceases, replaced by eerie, frozen silence. Its nostrils flare against your skin, warm breath feathering across the bite, making the hairs on your arm stand on end. Your pulse pounds between your teeth, the sting of the wound dulling under the weight of something more pressing — its eyes.

Two inky pools, round and bottomless, reflecting your fractured likeness like tiny mirrors.

"Please," you whisper, shaky, but soft. "I just want to help. You're safe. I won’t hurt you."

The grip on your arm doesn't tighten. Doesn't loosen. The only thing left between you is the weight of your words and the fragile, fragile stillness.

"Let me go," you murmur, swallowing hard. "And we’ll fix this. Okay?"

There's a pause, a single, terrifying moment suspended in time. Then, the seal's jaws relax, and he releases his painful grip on your throbbing arm, and as quickly as the assault began, it ends. Blood rushes forth in a thin rivulet down your wrist and between your fingers. It doesn't really hurt, not compared to the dull ache in the rest of your exhausted body, and the relief that washes over you is so profound that you're momentarily dizzy from it. And yet... The fact that the seal has calmed down means everything.

"It's okay, it’s okay, don't worry about it," you say hurriedly, intended for yourself more than anything so you wouldn't freak out about it. "You were scared, that's all. It's not your fault."

But the pup isn’t looking at the net.

Its gaze is locked onto your arm, the blood pooling at the wound, round, ink-dark eyes impossibly wider, focused in a way that makes something in your chest tighten.

You stare at him, and for a fleeting, impossible second, it feels like he understands. Like he knows what he did. Awe prickles through you, pushing aside the pain, the exhaustion, everything.

Seals are intelligent — you’ve always known that — but this is so magical to experience how emotionally aware they are.

"Hey. Hey, I’m fine, buddy," you insist. "Look at me, look. I'm good, it’s just a scratch. Let's focus on getting that net off, yeah? Can't have you swimming away in that state. You’ll drown."

As you lean in to inspect, the pup shies away initially, clearly wary and distrustful, but eventually allows you to examine the tangled mess of knots and lines ensnaring his sleek, streamlined figure. The heavy, dense debris he's wrapped in like a blanket is making it impossible to unravel anything, and the more you try to remove it, the tighter the bindings grow. Your injured arm is growing numb, which is probably not a good sign, but there's no time to dwell on that now.

Frustrated and increasingly anxious, you search frantically for something in your backpack to use as scissors or a knife, but the jerky movements make the pup tense up, its tail slapping nervously in the sand, and you have to take several calming breaths to prevent scaring him further.

"Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to frighten you. I'll be gentler," you promise in a rush. "Just bear with me, okay?"

All you can find is your nail clippers, but they'll have to suffice. With painstaking care, you snip away at the individual strands binding the pup's limbs together, pausing every few moments to reassure him that everything is alright, that it will survive and go back to the rookery islet. Its fur is wet and matted with blood beneath the ropes, and the sight sends a fresh surge of anger through your veins at the thought of whoever abandoned such a careless trap in the ocean.

"Almost got it, buddy, almost, you're doing great," you sniffle, working steadily to free its front flippers. They're the most delicate and prone to injuries, according to Elias. "One last cut and..."

With a soft pop, the final strand gives way and the net falls loose, the release of pressure causing the seal to scramble sideways and flop awkwardly onto his belly in a clumsy roll. It lies there motionless for a brief second before letting out a piercing, mournful wail that stabs at the pit of your stomach.

You drop your tool and fall to your knees beside him, hands hovering uncertainly over its body. You don't dare touch, afraid of hurting it further. In a burst of energy, the pup pushes itself upright, body wiggling and coiling to propel it forward in a frantic dash towards the safety of the sea. You watch helplessly, unable to move or think or react in any way, until it pauses halfway to the shoreline and glances back at you, a low whine emanating from his throat.

"Go on, get out of here," you urge him, waving it onward. "Stay safe and take care of yourself, alright? You've had enough close calls today." A pang of dread hits you, realizing how much danger the pup was already in and how lucky it had been that you happened to be nearby to save it from a terrible fate. But now, all you can do is let it return to its natural environment. "Be free, cutie," you say quietly. "Live well and happy. You deserve better than this."

The pup hesitates, still watching you with those soulful, inscrutable black eyes. Then, in an act that leaves you speechless, it turns and galumphs back to your side, lowering its head and nudging its muzzle against the bleeding gash on your forearm. When it pulls away, his whiskers are slick with red, and a strange sense of gratitude overwhelms you.

"Oh, you angel," you manage, a lump forming in your throat. The urge to viciously pet his head is strong, but this isn’t a cat or a dog. Your arm really might get bitten off from the elbow socket. "Now scram. I'm sure your mama is worried about you."

This time, the seal does as instructed. It slides gracefully down the sandy slope and slips into the waves, vanishing from view in an instant. Only a small trail of blood remains, mingling with the foam and seawater that wash over the shore, evidence of the ordeal endured by this remarkable creature wiped away in an instant by the protective hands of the sea.

The shock of it all, of the stress and adrenaline, finally catches up to you and you collapse backwards in the sand, the pain in your arm flaring once again and only now feeling the cuts on the bottom of your feet.

Shaken to your bones in a way you can’t quite name, your fingers fumble to switch off airplane mode before you even realize what you’re doing. The moment the call connects, you’re babbling into the phone, voice thick with tears, words tangled and frantic. Mom struggles to make sense of you, but it doesn’t take long for her to find you — half an hour later, sprawled on the ground, your windbreaker haphazardly draped over your shoulders, backpack wedged beneath your head. The gash on your arm is wrapped in a makeshift tourniquet, one of your old bandanas knotted tightly around the wound.

If Dad’s ferry hadn’t been stuck in the harbor, he would’ve been here too. No doubt about it.

You get an earful the moment she kneels beside you. Irresponsible. Reckless. Running off without telling anyone. Dad would’ve had a heart attack if things had gone any worse. Yes, yes, yes. You let her words wash over you, nodding at the right moments, too drained to do anything else. Her hugs and kisses make up plenty for it. 

Neither of you bring up the fight. Neither of you need to. Some things are easier left unspoken.

She doesn’t mention the festival, either. But you both know what kind of rumors will be swirling by morning.

For now, you're taken to the local clinic and given a rabies and a tetanus shot, and a lecture from the nurse who treated you, warning you to never approach a wild animal again because the next time, you might not be as lucky.

Chapter Text

You almost get grounded. For till college.

But being the center of attention in your friend group and the story of a wound that will leave the coolest scar are totally worth the perma ticket booth sentence (jail).

It's not all that bad. It's just that, instead of loading cargo or directing people or helping out the passengers, you got sentenced to boredom, stuck behind a window, taking payment and handing out change and never allowed to leave. Plus, everyone knows you. Which means that no, the ticket master metaphorically posing with a Yu-Gi-Oh duel disk can't give discounts to the old lady who brings you a crocheted hat, or to the fisherman who promises to bring a fresh catch of mackerel to your family's kitchen, or to the little girl who wants to go see the seals, has no cash and can only pay with a bag of homemade cookies...

Speaking of seals, you go back to that beach, a week after the incident when your grounding is more flexible.

But of course, there's no trace of that adorable rascal. You feel a little sad, a little disappointed, a little under the influence of the magical encounter that had you daydreaming you could be Snow White. Then again, you wouldn't want him to hang around in fishing areas. You hope he's doing alright, somewhere, hopefully, not getting caught in nets anymore.

Elias tells you that the seal colony on the islet has forms during breeding and pupping season each year during late spring and early summer, and when he hears you recounting the event and describing the seal, you find out that the one you saved is not one of them.

Apparently, pups are tiny. The one you rescued was either a juvenile or a sub-adult, though the gender is still unclear. You're a little stunned, having expected to have rescued a baby, not an adolescent. Elias explains how the rookery is a nursery area, and females tend to congregate there to give birth. Male seals are territorial and competitive, and often live in the surrounding waters. So maybe that seal was a male weaned off of the same rookery. If you had saved a female, the chances of ever seeing her again would have been higher, since they return to the same rookeries and stay there for a couple months. Males, on the other hand...

Well, at the end of the day, he's probably long gone.

Wrong.

You eventually encounter him on the same small cove the following week. In broad daylight this time.

Dad has hired a couple of staff members to help out, so you have a lot more free time to enjoy your friends and explore the archipelago. Despite the time restrictions. So, even though going back to where you met the seal for the first time was born out of hope to see him again at first, it's also about conveniennce with how close it is to home unironically, and therefore, not violating curfew rules.

So, it's just another day with your picnic basket and beach towel, heading out to the shore in your shorty wetsuit. You have a novel to finish, some music to listen to, snacks to munch on, and the promise of long-awaited solitude to savor.

You've just set up your blanket and opened the book when a loud bark scares the shit out of you.

Startled, you whip around to find the source of the sound — and gasp as a large, gray shape emerges from the water, lumbering towards you with clumsy bounces that echo with the 'boing, boing, boing' sound effect in your head, dragging its blubbery body across the sand and stopping at the edge of your blanket.

You can't quite comprehend what's happening right now, transfixed by the cute, pink tongue peeking out of its mouth as it tries to catch its breath.

It's the exact same seal from before, his familiar markings and the faint scars of the netting you untangled him from unmistakable.

The same seal that was supposed to have swam away to freedom. The same seal that's supposed to be a wild, feral, unpredictable animal is here, looking at you, waiting for something, making an occasional huff and snuffle the more you stay unresponsive.

You're frozen in place, unable to react, mind racing, trying to make sense of the situation. A part of you wonders if this is a dream, but the gritty sensation of the sand in your flippers that reminds you of your discomfort and the warm rays of the sun on your skin assure you otherwise.

Finally, the seal seems to grow impatient and shuffles closer, nuzzling his whiskered nose against your knee, the gesture somehow both gentle and insistent, coaxing you to react. His fur is damp and cool, and you swear his dark, round, limpid black eyes are staring straight into your soul, a knowing intelligence lurking within his soft, expressive depths.

"There's no way," you gawk, not knowing where to put your hands and they flail for a couple seconds in excitement.

He's approached you willingly, showing no signs of distress or aggression, and in fact, he seems oddly not on guard. He's not a pup, and yet he's displaying behavior that's more suited to domesticated dogs, not a marine mammal that's supposed to avoid humans. Seals are curious creatures by nature, and encounters with people aren't unheard of, but this level of familiarity is unusual considering the traumatic circumstances under which the two of you initially met.

"Hello, hi, oh my god, hi, hello???" You try cautiously, not daring to reach out and touch him, but keeping your tone soothing and welcoming. You're actually going to scare him off if you let out the squeals roaring inside. "How are you doing, buddy? Is that really you?"

The seal's whiskers twitch in response to the sound of your words, his head cocked to one side in a manner that suggests attentive listening. It's almost as if he recognizes your presence, and that thought sends a shivery thrill through you.

"You remember me?" you ask, a tentative smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Your heart leaps as his head waves up and down. You choose to take that gesture as a yes instead of the air sniffing to vibe-check you that it actually is. "That's so sweet of you!"

A low, rumbling noise reverberates from deep within the seal's nose, and you can't help the giggle that escapes you. It sounds like a cross between a snort and a grumble, a strangely endearing combination that's distinctly his own.

"I'm not sure what to make of this," you continue, feeling more at ease in his company, despite the absurdity of the situation. "What are you doing here? Saw me and wanted to hang out?"

His only answer is a single, melodious yowl, followed by a series of chirps that resemble the playful squeaks of a dolphin. You can't help the warmth that spreads through you at the sound, a sudden fondness for the strange, gentle creature washing over you as he flops closer to lie just beside your blanket like you two are friends sitting next to each other, rolling onto his belly and stretching his front flippers in a leisurely, cat-like stretch. You're not a trained zoologist, but his behavior is clearly indicative of trust, and that's enough to convince you that the connection you feel isn't imagined. This is the most peculiar, wonderful surprise you've ever had. And the best part is that, in the middle of a summer vacation that had been filled with ups and downs, you have made an unlikely friend...

Oh, he's actually sunbathing. With you.

And his coat looks healthy. That's good.

The way his head looks when he closes his eyes... Like a content bean, a happy, satisfied little guy. So cute.

God, you can't pet him.

The seal expert in the island is Elias, who works with the conservation team on the rookery islet. Maybe someday, if things come to that, he could guide you, but for now, you're not risking harming him in any way. Especially not after rescuing him from a near-death experience.

He opens his eyes when he hears scratching. Particularly, you scratching along the seams of the bandages on your forearm. You haven't realized you had been unconsciously picking on them because of the itch till the moment the seal's penetrating stare burns on the area. How peculiar. He seems to possess object permanence regarding the injury and understand the concept of wounds, or at least the effects of them. Or are you delusional?

"Curious, huh," you say, pulling your hand back and flexing the muscles in the arm to relieve some of the irritation. "You remember this as well? It's your love bite, bud."

The seal makes a soft, inquisitive grunt, and then begins to inch his way across the sand to make it back to the sea, and a disappointment that makes your face fall down settles upon you at the prospect of him leaving already.

"Oh..." you mumble. "Leaving so soon?"

But the seal doesn't seem to be departing. Instead, he dives gracefully beneath the surface of the water, disappearing from view. Confused but intrigued, you remain seated, watching the rippling waves with bated breath. After several long, anxious moments, a silvery fish bursts forth from the depths, thrashing wildly in the seal's jaws. He bites down fiercely, severing the life of the fish in an instant and sending a spurt of blood into the salty brine. Then, he swims back to shore and boing-boing-boings over to deposit the lifeless prey at your feet, his tail slapping eagerly against the wet ground, dark, round, expressive wet eyes shining bright with pride and excitement.

It's a gift. You're certain of that. A token of gratitude, perhaps, or a symbol of camaraderie.

"Oh, thank you," you say, genuinely touched by the gesture. "You're such a gentleman. But I'm not hungry, so... Actually, do you want to share it together? Would that be okay?" You pause, studying the seal's reactions carefully. "Yeah, that's what we're doing."

With that, you reach for the fish, its cold, slippery scales slick against your palm, and break it in half with a fruit knife you brought along in your picnic basket, setting one portion aside and offering the other to the seal. He sniffs at the proffered meal, whiskers quivering, before opening his mouth to accept it. You watch in fascination as his powerful teeth tear into the flesh, marveling at the delicate balance of predator and companion that exists between the two of you. There's something about sharing a meal with a wild animal who caught it for you in the first place, that feels sacred. Ancient, and special.

"You know what, you can have my half, I’m really full," you concede, not being able to resist his eager gluttony. You decide to share with him since he shared with you, as well. "Sorry if I'm not much of a huntress, but here's a little treat that'll blow your mind. Hopefully." You start rummaging through your belongings, searching the contents of the basket. "Let's see, let's see... Aha! Here it is!"

When you turn around, you nearly jump out of your skin to find the seal right there behind you, looking at the basket curiously. He seems very interested in the container. Maybe he's figured out it contains food, somehow. Could seals smell through a plastic lid?

"Woah, woah, hey, easy," you murmur softly, reaching up to gently boop him on the nose and watch in fascination as his entire head disappears by sinking into his body at the contact.

Oh!

Oh no.

You're going to die. Cuteness overload. Right here, in front of him, and on this day. It's like his skull has disappeared and his blubbery neck absorbed his face into his torso. If the purpose is to protect himself from predators, that's not the vibe the gesture is giving. At all.

Holding the container of sashimi, you let him take a peek at the contents. When his nose starts wiggling and his tail starts flapping, you can't help the grin that breaks out. He seems to have understood that whatever is inside is edible, and his eagerness is infectious, sending a jolt of glee and satisfaction coursing through you at the thought of providing him with a new experience.

"Look, look, this is called sashimi," you explain, selecting a small piece of raw salmon and holding it out on your palm. The seal sniffs at the morsel tentatively, his nostrils flaring, before he darts his tongue out and wraps it around the slice of fish, pulling it into his mouth.

He's so gentle with it too, not even nipping at the flesh of the hand that's feeding him. Just a soft, light brush of his tongue, and a content, satisfied swallow, and the taste must have been to his liking, because he emits a low, throaty squeak of pleasure, a sound that sends a warm, fuzzy feeling fluttering through your chest. Has he been socialized at some point in the past to know how to take food from humans, maybe by fishermen or tourists? Is he simply a naturally affectionate creature? You fully expected him to be more cautious around humans given his recent trauma, and yet, here he is, demonstrating an openness that defies all expectations and assumptions.

"Well, you've got good taste," you remark with a chuckle, watching as his tail thumps excitedly on the sand, signaling for another serving. The sight of him making a 'begging' pose in the most literal sense melting your heart. "Fine, you can have it all. But only because you're so charming."

One by one, you feed the remaining pieces of sashimi to him, fascinated by the feel of his smooth, pink velvety tongue against your fingertips each time he accepts a bite one would being licked by a cat or a dog. His enthusiasm is contagious, and you can't help the laughter that bubbles up in your own throat, a bright, sparkling sound that rings across the deserted stretch of coastline and makes him perk up and look up at you, head tilted in curiosity, a sort of startled, wide-eyed, puppy-dog stare.

"Aw, sorry," you apologize, realizing that the volume of your laughter might have overwhelmed him. "I'm just happy. Happy to be here, with you. This is the best beach date I've ever had."

You watch, in real time, as the seal sputters from his nose, the recoil of his jiggling body rocking him backward and to the side as he avoids eye contact in a manner that parallels dogs when they’re being recorded, and finally decides to completely flee back to the sea.

You blink, speechless, trying to figure out what you did wrong.

"...Was my laugh that ugly?"

You are convinced this is a good idea.

You’ve seen the TikToks. You know the method. You’ve watched professionals do this with thousand-pound animals that could kick them into the next dimension, and it works.

And sure, your friend is technically a seal and not a horse, but the principle is the same. Desensitization. You introduce scary things in a safe, controlled way, and boom — no more spooky, jumpy reactions.

It’s foolproof.

If it has to be something like doing crazy dances with a plastic bag or throwing a duvet over their heads to trigger less anxiety, then so be it. There is logic and science behind this method, even though it requires you to humiliate yourself in front of a wild animal and hope that there isn't a secret camera hidden somewhere recording you acting like a clown and saving the clip online to become meme fuel.

"Alright, bud," you announce, stretching your arms like a coach psyching up a particularly useless team. "Today's the day."

If you expect anything resembling acknowledgment, the seal gives none; instead, he seems content to continue nibbling delicately at a lump of kelp, ignoring you completely while reclining on his side like a Victorian noblewoman on a fainting couch atop a sun-baked rock. His sleek gray coat glistens brightly as he sprawls across the stone, flippers twitching lazily as his attention wanders in search of tasty tidbits amongst the fronds of green algae still trailing from his mouth.

Seeing him this relaxed sends a wave of relief through you. Your relationship has improved exponentially since that first day the two of you officially met. He's grown noticeably more accustomed to interacting with you without showing any signs of fear or discomfort. You're no longer regarded with suspicion or alarm whenever you approach — instead, he welcomes you, greeting your presence with cheerful squeaks and soft snorts that always send warm fuzzies flying all across your cheeks. Not that you keep score, but lately, he's been initiating more interactions than before, nudging you with his nose, pawing gently at your leg to draw your attention, even resting beside you whenever he gets the chance, seeking comfort in your closeness in ways that leave you giddy with happiness.

"AAAA!" you shout, stretching your arms in a T-pose to make yourself look bigger.

The seal violently flops to the side, rolling down the small incline of the surrounding rocks like a giant, damp potato.

"Oh my god!" You rush to help him with choked laughter, kneeling at his side while he struggles to get his balance and reclines up on his flippers.

He shoots you the ugliest death glare.

"I'm sorry," you say, forcing your lips into a thin line to hold back your smile. "Was I too scary?"

The seal huffs sharply in response, causing a few loose strands of hair to fall over your face from the wind. Then he reaches his head forward, and slowly, deliberately, rubs his cheek against your bandaged forearm before flopping back down. It takes you several seconds to recover from the attack of cuteness, by which time the seal has rolled around again in the direction opposite of you so that only his round, puffy butt faces toward where you kneel in the sand.

Pouting. Definitely pouting. It's so adorable, did he get embarrassed? Ahhhhh!

You spend the next few minutes running around the seal and making unexpected movements like a drunk ostrich on sugar rush just to see how he'd react, following that up with a sorcerer in the middle of a magic attack combo with flicking jazz hands right to his face, then re-enacting that one scene from How the Grinch Stole Christmas in which the titular character tries to scare of Cindy Lou by barking at her face acting crazy in a little step forward-and-back dance with claw-hands, looking like you were about to attack him but faking him out at the last second.

Needless to say, you get nothing other than keen interest like you were a jester and he was the king sitting in the audience taking great pleasure in your performance, full-on radiating medieval royalty urge to always have entertainment while eating.

You decide to change tactics. Step one: Introduce the Object.

From your backpack, you pull out a bright blue towel and give it a dramatic shake.

“See this?” You wave it like a deranged matador. “It’s just a towel. Harmless. Normal. Not scary.”

His whiskers twitch. His head tilts slightly, like you’ve just shown him a complex tax form.

You wave it again, closer this time. “Ooooooo, look, it moooves. It flaps. It’s just fabric.”

Still no reaction.

Encouraged, you take a step closer, still waving the towel like you’re trying to summon a demon. “See? It’s fine. Totally normal. You don’t have to be scared.”

The seal makes a noise — something between a huff and a chirp.

Then he snorts.

You freeze.

Did… did this seal just laugh at you?

No. That’s ridiculous. Animals don’t laugh. You’re being paranoid.

Step Two: Make Contact.

“I’m just gonna touch you with it a little, okay?” you say in your best soothing horse-trainer voice.

He does not, in fact, agree to this.

But he also doesn’t move away as you gently drape the towel over his back.

Success!

Or at least, it is success, right up until you start rubbing the towel over him like you’ve seen in the videos, mimicking the slow, rhythmic motions that are supposed to be calming.

“Good boy,” you murmur, nodding approvingly. “See? Nothing to be scared of. Just a towel. A friendly, normal—”

The seal erupts.

One second, he’s still. The next, his entire body vibrates like a malfunctioning washing machine.

Then — he flops.

Not just any flop. A dramatic, full-body collapse into the sand, legs flailing, his head rolling back in what you can only describe as unhinged, wheezing laughter.

You just stand there, gripping the towel, watching this damn seal lose his mind.

He keeps snorting. His non-existent shoulders shake. He slaps the sand with one flipper, no different than an old man gasping for air between belly laughs.

You recoil. “Am I being fucking laughed at by a seal right now? Nah. Naaaah, that can't be.”

He lets out an actual honking noise.

Your face burns. “I am trying to help you, you little sea rat!”

A loud, loud crying. More slapping.

He is mocking you. This has to be mocking. Or is it that your own self-consciousness has finally manifested in the world and acquired a shape? Maybe that's why this feels like teasing; maybe you're projecting.

With a defeated sigh, you plop onto the sand beside him, still gripping the towel like it holds the last shreds of your dignity.

Well, at least you found out he is desensitized, alright. A win is a win.

The following weeks, the island's weather grows warmer. And, with the rising temperature, the seal's visits become more and more frequent, almost daily, until his company becomes a constant fixture of your free time.

It's a bizarre, inexplicable relationship that defies all reason and logic — that a seal would hop on land to come visit instead of being encountered while swimming. A wild marine mammal that should fear and distrust humans has decided to form a bond with you, seeking your presence out of his own accord, and showing an intelligence that goes beyond instinctual behavior.

At least, that's what you're inclined to believe. You're no expert. Just an observer of this delightful, unexpected friendship that has bloomed between the two of you.

You're not sure what draws him to the tiny, secluded cove where you've been meeting him, nor do you understand why he chooses to stay on the shore with you, sunbathing on the warm sands and indulging in the snacks and treats you bring him, rather than returning to the open ocean. But every time you arrive, he's there, waiting, a large, lumbering shape that barks and squeaks upon seeing you, waddling over to greet you as though you're an old friend.

His trust is a precious thing, a fragile, irreplaceable treasure that you cherish dearly. And, in return, he shows a level of affection that would put many a domestic animal to shame.

He nuzzles against your legs, rolls over to reveal his belly, and even allows you to touch and stroke the soft, supple fur on his head sometimes if he feels like it that day. It's a privilege, a gift, and you're acutely aware of the responsibility that comes with such intimacy. You handle him gently, cautiously, mindful of his comfort and well-being, and never pushing past the limits of his tolerance or patience.

You learn to read his cues, to recognize the signs of contentment and discomfort in his posture and vocalizations. When he's relaxed, his body language is loose, his limbs splayed out on the ground in a lazy, sprawling manner that suggests a deep, boneless ease. He grunts and chirps in a low, rhythmic cadence that seems to express his pleasure and satisfaction, and the sound is oddly soothing, a gentle, melodic counterpoint to the steady, pulsing rush of the waves crashing nearby. Snorts and snuffles are indicators of inquisitiveness and curiosity, while a high-pitched whistle signals excitement and happiness, often accompanied by an enthusiastic wagging of his tail that resembles the motion of a dog's. When he's upset or nervous, his entire body stiffens and he pulls away from your touch, a clear signal to give him space and respect his boundaries.

You're proud to say you haven't discovered his anger yet, but the day you walk in on a tourist group in your cove becomes the answer to your question.

This isn't the rookery. There are no guides or rangers to keep everyone in check. These tourists are on their own, exploring, and they have stumbled upon the wrong spot. They're being stupid, and the worst part is that they're not even breaking the law. The fact that the seal is in the water is enough not to be trespassing, and therefore, not punishable.

As you approach the crowd gathering around a particular spot, your heart clenches at the sight of your friend cornered into a small cave, no — more like a fissure in the rock formations that surround the cove, that reaches just ten meters from the shore.

These guys want a picture with the seal, which has gone hostile obvious from his jaw making snapping motions and is trying to dive back into the sea as far from them as possible.

It's all because he was waiting for you here.

There's nothing you can do other than run towards them. And maybe distract them by waving your arms frantically and screaming, "What the hell are you doing?! Didn't you see the sign that says this area is private?!"

You know lecturing them about how they're causing distress to the animal is futile, so, Karen-mode it is.

Surprisingly, it works, and they run off. But not before complaining and whining about how "there's no fucking harm in this".

Sure, asshole. There’s no harm in distressing the poor seal that shows obvious signs of wanting to be left alone.

After taking care of them (read: screaming at them) and calling Elias to come get rid of them, you rush back to the beach to make sure your seal is okay.

He won't look at you.

If there's anything you learned the hard way is that a wild animal never acts erratically without reason, whether it be a bird pecking insistently at a window or a rabbit darting across the road when you least expect it. So it stands to reason that if your companion completely ignores you as he makes it out of the cave and makes a beeline towards the sea, he must have a valid cause for doing so.

Maybe you were too close to these strangers, maybe your intimidation and aggression were too much for him.

You hope he knows you'd never put him in danger willingly.

"Wait," you call out after him, raising your hand above your head to attract his attention and willing your frantic heartbeat to settle back down into a normal rhythm. You don't want to frighten him further by shouting or running up behind him, chasing him down — the last thing you need is to scare him off altogether after working so hard to gain his trust.

To your amazement, he actually pauses, hovering midway between the cave and the water, hesitating, glancing warily back at you over his shoulder. It's eerie sometimes that he reacts how a human would, but also quite remarkable. You're positive it means he understands you, that your interactions carry meaning for him.

But now that he's stopped, you don't know what to say. Hey, sorry some jerks scared the shit out of you. I don't know them. Please don't think I lured them here to you.

Why would you have this conversation with a seal?

So, you walk up slowly to the spot where he still stands, and then sit down crosslegged next to him on the sandy rocks that divide land from sea, trying to appear nonthreatening and reassuring in equal measure. For several long, excruciating moments, the only sounds are the distant cries of seagulls overhead, the restless rustle of the surf rushing back and forth against the shore, and your own breathing growing faster the longer the silence stretches on.

He allows you to remain there, and doesn't delve back into the waters either, so that's something. You still have his trust. You could also cry about still having his trust. What a wonderful being.

"I'm sorry," you offer tentatively, hoping that the note of sorrow ringing through your words will convey the depth of regret behind those two simple syllables. "They weren't supposed to come here."

His round, wet nose twitches rapidly, whiskers bobbing with every flicker and flutter, his sleek, blubbery body shifting subtly from side to side. His tail slaps the sand in a frenzy, kicking up sprays of loose soil and scattering fragments of seashells in all directions. "Gegh!" he screams all of a sudden, making you jump. "Ggighphh!"

"Okay, I hear you," you reassure him hastily. "Next time I'll yell at them harder."

"Gyeeaaagh..."

"Uh huh, that's better. I hear you."

"Greph, l'egg!"

"Do you forgive me?"

"Miphhh."

"Oh, you’re so sweet…”

A week passes before you try to meet him again, giving him ample time to recover.

He never reappeared when you came by alone to the cove after your usual duties ended — you began wondering if maybe the incident left him traumatized, too sensitive to want to risk further confrontation — but there's a sense of relief in knowing that he hasn't abandoned you entirely.

When you step onto the beach one morning, bright and early before the sun has fully risen above the horizon, his dark shape emerges from the waves to greet you once more, shambling awkwardly across the pebbles as though eager to confirm your presence, and your heart absolutely leaps at seeing him back.

Something about this meeting feels different than before, there's a rush in his mannerisms that wasn't there previously, and as he approaches, you notice his head is uncharacteristically held low. It reminds you of a child who has something important to say but doesn't know how, or dare, to begin talking.

He stops just a few feet away from where you're standing, staring resolutely at the ground instead of maintaining direct visual contact, and remains completely silent save for an occasional chirrup that seems directed inward more than toward you.

"Hey, buddy," you begin softly, afraid to disturb the quiet. "How've you been? Long time no see. Missed ya, little rascal."

He explodes with an accusing, "Ya!" and smacks his front flipper on the sand as punctuation. The sneeze that follows is rough. "Hphaaa — mmphm..."

"Ohhkay, wow, someone sure is pissed today," you raise a brow.

He doesn't like that.

And for the first time, you witness a temper tantrum from him.

He barks loudly, tail flapping and nostrils flaring in frustration as he tosses himself back and forth across the sands, flopping wildly, kicking his finned tail and letting out shrill cries of outrage whenever you start approaching closer. Even as you stand a safe distance away, he continues to glare balefully up at you, snuffling and squealing disapprovingly as though offended that you're even present during such an intense bout of sulking.

Witnessing the rare display of bad humor has your shoulders shaking uncontrollably in fits of giggles despite the fact that he's acting irrationally, which is kind of rude from your end because obviously it can't be funny from his. But when you manage to contain yourself and regain some semblance of composure, you notice that his dramatic display has evolved into something more reminiscent of theatrics of an overgrown puppy trying its hardest to prove its ferociously cute point, and not the primordial rage fit that you thought initially. His face is scrunched up as if stuck halfway between a yawn and a grimace; his eyelids squeezed tightly shut while his mouth gapes wide open, showing off rows of sharp, deadly teeth and pink gums.

It's such a hilarious sight, such a ridiculous pose, that before you know what you're doing, you're reaching down to tickle under his chin lightly — unable to quench down your need to pet and coo at him despite his obvious agitation — and surprise surprise, instead of biting off your entire arm clean off, he goes still beneath your fingers for a moment.

"Oh you're such a cute baby boy. Cute, silly baby. You've got anger issues, mister, huh? Yes, yes, yes, who's the toughest seal ever, huh? Who's the cutest, most adorable seal in the whole wide world?"

To your amazement, he lets you do it, humming softly in response to the gentle rubs and pats, his body relaxing under your ministrations until eventually he closes his eyelids altogether and allows you to continue petting him without interruption or complaint, emitting low growls of contentment in place of displeasure.

"Aw... You missed me that much? Don't worry, I'm not gonna leave ever again unless you ask." Getting to pet him — ever, for the matter — wasn't exactly something planned, so you were bending at the waist, but the way this is going smoothly, you end up sitting down to keep doing it. You smile fondly at the way his gray, dry fur (which indicates he's been on land for a good while) bristles outward beneath your fingertips. "Beautiful, beautiful baby boy. So handsome! Yup, yup, yup..."

Suddenly, his whole body goes rigid.

Then, abruptly, without warning, he moves like a missle, rolling himself onto his side so that he's facing you directly, twisting his torso toward you with unexpected agility, and rests the topmost part of his torso against yours, nuzzling his head along your neck gently. With a start, you realize what he's attempting to do: hug you.

As soon as you comprehend the significance of what is happening, you throw your arms around his broad, muscular form in return and lean forward instinctively, returning the embrace eagerly despite the awkwardness of the angle due to his size relative to your own physique.

"Ghiilaghiiii," he drawls out, the vibrations rumbling deeply inside of him resonating throughout your body in waves until they reach every corner of your being and gets you almost dizzy with elation. "Phyaaaaaaggghhieeeeeehgllll..."

Is it normal to be in tears after such an action? Because here you go. This seal has missed you, wanted a hug and made sure to deliver. How wonderful life is.

"I missed you more, you lovely angel. Thank you for wanting my company still," you sniffle happily into his fluffy coat, inhaling the musky scent of saltwater mixed with fresh sea spray that surrounds him like an invisible cloud. He should smell like fish or algae, but weirdly, he smells nice. And clean. How does a mammal even manage to get this fragrant when living in water? It shouldn't make any sense whatsoever, especially considering how much time he spends in the surf each day yet manages not to get sticky or covered in crusty buildups of dried plankton like most seals tend to develop after spending prolonged periods submerged undersea. "I'm so happy you don't hate me and decided to stay. I thought I had scared you away forever..."

He makes a sound like blowing raspberry at you, whacking his nose against your collarbone roughly enough that you wince inwardly but refrain from complaining aloud, not wishing to discourage him from enjoying the contact.

"Can I stroke you right here as well?"

You know he knows what's going on because he gives an approving hoot at your inquiry, tilting his head upwards against yours momentarily before resting it back atop your collarbones, letting loose a series of joyful chittering noises that sound distinctly like laughter. If nothing else convinces you of his intelligence then this certainly does the trick. An ordinary wild animal wouldn't react in such an interactive way nor would it care enough about interacting with another species unless desperate or curious, yet he has chosen to engage with you consistently since the two of you met all those weeks ago.

"Who is a good little cutie pie? Who is my gorgeous little sweetheart?"

This is probably getting overboard, but he clearly enjoys it based upon how excitedly he flops about while getting fussed over, his long tail beating happily against the sand each time you speak praise unto him in the rythym of your pets. Clearly delighted by this sudden affectionate assault, he bounces and chirrups playfully whenever you pause between complimenting him, eager to receive attention regardless if he comprehends fully the meaning behind it.

Eventually, though, things become less amusing for you due to the amount of strength needed for you to maintain both the position as well as support his huge head (noticing it was very dense and surprisingly heavier than it looked), forcing you to eventually call timeout.

However, before letting him free completely from the hug, you decide to give him a kiss on the nose that instantly turns your insides into mush as you see him close his giant, round, glistening black eyes for a fraction of second like a cat would before blinking them open again, gazing deeply straight into yours and holding your stare.

And proceeds to sneeze directly into your face.

"Thanks. Now we're officially best friends," you proclaim solemnly while wiping spit off your face.

You name him Raf.

You're not entirely sure how you came up with the name, to be honest. Maybe you overheard a tourist saying a variation of 'Raf' or 'Rat' or something similar and subconsciously picked it up from there? Who knows? The only thing you remember is that one moment you were teasing him about naming him 'Crybaby' -- 'BB' for short, and the next you hear yourself muttering 'Raf' out loud like something within your brain clicked. Like it was whispered right into your ear.

When you said it aloud for the first time, Raf perked up so intensely that you realized instantly the name was perfect for him. There was no doubt whatsoever — this was his name. A fitting, powerful one for such a gentle spirit that just happens to sound like a person's name.

But of course, when asked, you say it's short for riff-raff.

Chapter Text

It’s your last evening on the island.

Your bags are already packed. Two suitcases, a duffel, and now a fourth carry-on — one Mom insisted on adding last minute. It's half-insulated, stuffed with three Tupperwares of home-cooked rice and frozen stew andthree packs of marinated something-or-other wrapped with ice packs and to be put into the dorm fridge ASAP, jars and jars full of pickled vegetables, frozen dumplings layered in foil, a suspiciously heavy thermos labeled 'for emergencies only,' and god knows how many packs of your favorite snacks. There’s even a loaf of bread wedged on top like an afterthought. It’s less of a bag and more of a portable pantry. She’d kept slipping things into it all morning, muttering about how the dorm won’t have "any real food and you have to cook your own" and you’ll thank her when you’re freezing and tired and want something warm.

The other bags are crammed tight, zippers barely holding, the fabric stiff from years of use. One of the suitcases is missing a wheel. It screeches whenever you drag it across the floor, like it knows this is the last time it’ll scrape across this house.

Your ferry ticket is tucked into your wallet, itinerary triple-checked, outfit for the next morning already laid out on the back of a chair. Tomorrow, you’ll board the ferry not to work it, not to haul crates or wrangle tourists, not with your shirt tucked into old cargo shorts and your name on a patch, but to leave. For good, or for long enough that it might as well be.

University waits on the mainland. City air. Dorms. Cafeteria food. The smell of dry-erase markers and hand sanitizer and too many strangers crammed into a lecture hall. Your name printed on a laminated student ID that looks nothing like you.

Your parents had gotten a bit emotional, naturally. Mom kept touching your face like it might disappear, brushing your hair off your forehead with a smile that twitched at the corners. Dad had retreated to the garage, insisting he needed to reorganize the fishing tackle, though nothing had changed in that cabinet since you were ten. You’d caught him wiping his eyes with an oily rag.

Your friends had made plans for one last group call the night you arrived. Someone had promised to mail you festival candy every year. Someone else swore they'd visit, though you all knew they wouldn’t. Everyone was being kind. Everyone was pretending not to notice the knot in your throat.

Except — you hadn’t seen him.

Not really. Not in days.

You’d caught glimpses of him at a distance, once from the second-story window of your school during lunch, his sleek shape out past the reef where the sea meets the cliffs, another time while biking past the overlook near the old radio tower, just a head bobbing in the shallows.

But not at the cove. Not where you always found him.

Not since the day you skidded onto the sand beside him and babbled about your university housing being confirmed, about the dorm you'd picked and how it had real hardwood floors and a communal kitchen. You’d talked too much, too fast, nervous energy bleeding into every word, and he just sat there. Still, as if his body had forgotten movement. His eyes had gone wide, not cartoonish or expressive, just strange. The way some animals look when lightning cracks the sky — more instinct than comprehension.

He’d made a faint sound, something between a chirp and a cough, and then rolled away to show you his back with this stiff, resigned shuffle. Like air leaving a balloon.

You hadn’t thought much of it at first. You thought maybe he was bored. Maybe full. Maybe the tide was too low and he didn’t want to move again.

He had just stared out at the horizon.

And then hadn’t shown up the next day.

Or the one after that.

You’d started going by the cove each evening just in case, each time finding nothing but waves and rockweed and the ghost of where he used to be.

So now, with your heart thick and your sandals in hand, you leave the house to seek him out for one last time. The sky has gone soft and lilac with the last light of day, bruising gently at the edges like an old plum. The wind brushes against your cheek like breath, carrying the distant scent of salt and something faintly metallic, seaweed sun-warmed and half dried. The sand is still warm under your feet, tender from the afternoon sun, and each step feels both too slow and too fast.

Your dress is plain this time, something old, soft and familiar, already wrinkled, smelling faintly of lavender detergent and ferry salt. There's a safety pin holding the hem where you never got around to mending it properly. The pattern’s nothing special, just a scatter of flame lilies across soft white cotton, but Raf’s always been weirdly drawn to it. You’d caught him staring at it more than once, eyes fixed not on you, but the bright, strange flowers trailing down the side of the skirt. Maybe it was the shape, the color, the unfamiliar way it moved in the wind like flickering candle fires. You’d decided, in a half-laughing sort of way, that it made sense. He was a seal. He’d probably never seen a flower before.

And it's a cheap way of trying to hold his attention now. 

You wind your way around the tidepools, stepping over seaweed-slick rocks, squinting into the breeze as gulls wheel overhead, screeching their approval of the approaching twilight. The cove is quiet. The way it always is this time of day — tide low, sky deepening, water turning to silver glass, like someone poured a breathless hush over the entire shoreline.

And here he is, completing the painting.

Raf.

He’s lying at the edge of the rocks, lumped in a pile of his own sulk, flippers tucked close and head turned toward the horizon where the sun is beginning to dip. He looks like a statue someone forgot to carve the face onto—still, slow-breathing, stubbornly present.

You stop a few feet away and raise your brows. "Hi, hi, hi, my cutie pie," you call, in the same rhythm you've always used—the sing-song greeting that once had him springing upright, barking like he'd been summoned by royalty.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even look startled. Like he knew you’d come. Like he’s been lying there for hours, maybe all day, waiting for you and doing a terrible job pretending he hasn’t.

"Raaaaf," you whine. "Don’t do this."

You inch closer, navigating the rocks with practiced hopping, one foot bracing while the other leaps forward, the soles of your feet stinging from the uneven stone. He shifts slightly as you approach, but only enough to angle away from you, offering you nothing but the slope of his back and the faint twitch of one earless head.

You sigh, easing yourself down beside him, careful to keep a respectful distance. You wrap your arms around your knees and let the silence stretch, like a long breath held between waves.

"Seriously? You’re gonna be like this?" you mutter. "I’m not dying, you know. I’ll be back."

He flicks his tail once, like punctuation. Noncommittal. Moody.

"You know," you go on, voice softening, "most seals would’ve at least looked sad. Maybe whimpered a little. Instead, I get full passive aggression. Complete stonewall."

Still nothing.

You rest your chin on your knees. The wind plays with your hair, threading it across your face. It smells like dried kelp and brine, and the faint sweetness of crushed beach plum.

He’s still watching the horizon. Pretending you’re not there.

You remember not being able to sit still on the beach without Raf nosing at your backpack, tugging it half into the water just to get your attention. Once, he dragged your towel three meters down the shore while you were diving, then looked genuinely offended when you got angry.

He brought gifts, too — bits of sea glass, shells worn smooth, a shiny bottle cap once that you’d still kept in your drawer. Once, he rolled up with a perfectly intact Gucci sandal that definitely wasn’t yours and dropped it in your lap like an offering. Always a treasure. Always for you. You always joked that he had a hoarding problem, but deep down you wondered if he just liked seeing you surprised.

You also dove together. Or rather, you dove while he spiraled around you like a corkscrewed comet, all fins and glee, sometimes vanishing below you only to burst up like a shadow chasing light. He liked playing chicken with your bubbles, popping up right in front of your goggles with a bark that echoed through your mask and made you choke from laughing.

But lately, none of that.

"You’re the only one I didn’t get to say goodbye to," you murmur. "And I thought — well. I don’t know. I thought you might at least come see me off."

He doesn’t respond. But his curled whiskers twitch. Barely. Maybe it's just the wind. Maybe not.

You don’t blame him. Animals know. Cats sit in suitcases. Dogs vanish when the leash comes out. You just didn’t think a seal could tell. But then again, Raf was never just a seal.

"I’ll be back during holidays," you promise. "And I’ll bring snacks. The good kind. They have so much variety in the mainland. None of the soggy fish fries. I’ll get those crunchy things you liked. You remember those?"

He lets out a soft, resigned noise. Less a huff, more a breath held too long. For all the ignoring and sulking, the usual dramatics of his is missing, and it’s making your heart clench.

You smile, a little. "Okay, okay. I’ll try harder. You’re so high maintenance."

Still, he doesn’t come closer. Doesn’t nudge your hand or toss something shiny at you. He just lies there, quiet and distant and solid as stone.

You stay until the sun slips behind the sea, until the sky turns to bruised blue and the stars begin to appear. One by one, the cove starts to change, growing cool and strange under moonlight. Your legs ache. Your eyes sting. You’ve said goodbye in your head a dozen times now, but it still hasn’t landed.

Eventually, you rise. Sand clings to your toes. Your dress rustles in the wind.

But you pause before you go. Just once. Just long enough to glance back.

He’s watching you.

You smile, small and wobbly. "I'm going to miss you the most, you know."

The morning of your departure is mostly quiet. The island is smaller than it has ever felt before. Or maybe you’ve just grown too big for it.

Mom wakes you with gentle hands and a bowl of warm congee, topped with a perfectly jammy egg, and as you’re washing up, the sight of your bags lined up neatly by the door of your family home feels unreal, like it belongs to someone else’s life. The ferry you’ve spent your whole life working on will be taking you away this time, but not just across the water to another island. This time, it’s the mainland. This time, you won’t be coming back in a few hours.

Dad loads the last of your stuff into the trunk as you’re having breakfast while muttering about ferry times like it's not him who gets the final say about them. You’re wearing the outfit you picked three days ago: practical, still slightly wrinkled, but something that makes you look like someone who has a plan.

Your dress from yesterday hangs near the door, flame lilies fluttering in the breeze each time someone opens it.

There are only a few things left to pack into your backpack, your charger, your toothbrush. Mom tucks a flat envelope into your duffel when she thinks you’re not looking. You let her.

“Are you sure you have everything?” she asks, and you know she’s not really talking about the bags.

“Yeah,” you say, shifting the strap of your carry-on over your shoulder. “I triple-checked.”

There’s a silence that settles between the three of you — not uncomfortable, just heavy with the weight of change.

Dad clears his throat. “You know, if you need anything—”

“I know.” You smile, trying to keep things light. “You’ll have me on the next ferry back before I even finish a sentence.”

Mom huffs a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

The joke lands, but the truth sits beneath it. Leaving feels impossible even as you stand at the threshold of it.

The ride to the dock is short, too short, the windows slightly fogged from the still-chilly morning. The conversation in the car starts with Mom nagging before the seatbelt even clicks. "You triple-checked your toothbrush? You always forget your toothbrush. And your charger—the thing with the thing—the long plug one? And a rain jacket. You didn’t pack a rain jacket, did you?"

You're already dissociating. She takes that as permission to continue.

"And don’t wait too long to buy your textbooks, because the good copies go fast. And when you run out of what we packed, don’t just live on instant noodles. You need real food. You need greens. Do you even know where to buy produce? Ask someone. And don’t sleep with your hair wet. You’ll get headaches. You will."

Dad doesn’t say a word. He drives like he’s praying for tunnels.

"And don’t put your laptop on your bed," she adds. "It overheats. You do that. You do that all the time."

You sigh. "I’ll be fine."

"You won’t be fine if you fry your hard drive again. I don’t want a crying phone call from the mainland at two a.m., asking if we backed up your files. We didn’t. Don’t do that to me again."

You nod. Because if you speak again, you’ll laugh or cry or scream, and none of those are safe. You nod, promise, nod again.

Everything’s been arranged: they’ll drop you on the mainland and spend the day in town, just to stretch the goodbye a little longer. Mom has already named three restaurants she wants to try. Dad has said “we’ll see” to all of them.

The dock is alive with movement — vendors dragging ice chests into place, deckhands coiling ropes, early commuters standing in quiet lines. The ferry waits at the end, squat and familiar, ropes taut and mist clinging to its sides. Somebody’s playing music through a phone speaker too loud, and it echoes between the beams of the terminal.

You stand with your parents near the loading ramp. Dad double-checks your ID for the fourth time. Mom tugs your sleeve down over your wrist, then back up again. She smooths the back of your collar like it’s a goodbye ritual—like maybe if the fold is just right, you’ll be protected from everything.

Then—

“Wait,” Mom says, sharp and alert. “Where’s the red suitcase?”

You blink. Scan the stack beside you. Duffel. Suitcase. Food carry-on.

Three.

There were supposed to be four.

“The red one,” she says again, louder now. “The one with your bedding. The toiletries. The extension cord! And your skin care—do you know how expensive that serum is?”

You turn slowly.

And then you see it.

Out in the harbor. A bright, bobbing flash of red. Moving steadily away from the dock.

Being dragged.

By something large, round, and unmistakably gray.

“RAAAAFFF!”

There’s a pause on the dock, like the hush that comes over a herd upon a loud noise. Then someone nearby laughs like it’s a sitcom.

He’s paddling like he has all the time in the world, flippers slicing through the water with purpose. The red suitcase is clamped in his jaws, handle caught like a leash.

“Oh my god,” Mom gasps, slapping Dad’s arm. “He’s stealing the luggage! He’s actually — he’s taking it!”

“Relax,” Dad says, shielding his eyes with one hand. “It’s fine. They’re waterproof.”

“Not animal-proof!” she hisses. “What if he unzips it with his teeth? What if the sunscreen pops open? It’ll be like an oil spill in there!”

You stagger forward. “Raf! What the hell! Get back here!”

The dock crowd thickens — fishermen with crates half-unloaded, tourists with raised cameras. Two kids shriek with laughter. A woman in a floral bucket hat whispers, "Is that trained? Like one of those therapy dolphins?"

Your entire head is on fire.

“Raf!” you shout again.

He swims like a parade float, silent and committed, red suitcase bobbing behind him like an accusatory balloon.

“I swear to god, Raf, this is not a bit! This is NOT CUTE!”

He pauses. Just long enough to make eye contact.

Then gives the suitcase a little tug and keeps going.

“Do something!” Mom cries, pacing in tight frantic circles.

“I am,” you snap, yanking off your shoes.

“WHAT? No, you’re not—don’t get in the—!”

Too late. You’ve dropped your backpack along with your jacket and mentally said goodbye to your cute outfit, and are halfway down the dock ladder.

The water bites immediately. Icy and dense, winding its way into your clothes with zero mercy. You grunt, teeth clacking. "Raf," you sputter, dog-paddling furiously, "if you don’t drop that suitcase right now, I will bite you back."

Your arms ache. Your dress — your going-away outfit chosen specifically to make an impression on your dorm mates — is plastered to your skin, heavy as a sack. You slip once, crash forward, get a mouthful of salt and indignity.

“Come here, you kleptomaniac!”

His fin splashes. Not too far away, but not within grabbing distance either. He makes it look effortless — long body cutting through the waters without a hitch, flippers paddling leisurely, his precious stolen luggage swinging to and fro in tow like the tail end of a comet.

He barks at you once, quick and clear above the slap of waves. Taunting you, almost. Calling you back. Come catch me. If you think you can.

"Yooooouuuu," you growl, dragging your freezing, seawater-logged self forward, arms stiff and dress dragging like annoyingly behind you. "You absolute menace. After days of ghosting me like a moody little shit, this is your grand finale? This? This is what you pull the morning I’m leaving?"

It happens quickly — the cold has slowed your reaction times and made you clumsy. An uneven wave buffets you from below and sends you lurching sideways. There's a confused second before your head sinks under the surface and icy black closes around you. You kick automatically, heart pounding, lungs burning with sudden terror. But it's only seconds before you bob up again, gasping and spitting out seawater.

And he’s right there.

Raf floats beside you, nose hovering near your shoulder, eyes wide and black as obsidian. His nose nudges at you, first one side, then the other, gentle, inquisitive pushes against your shoulders like he's testing the give of you. It should be funny, a seal checking in on you like this. 

You blink at him, dazed. His expression — if a seal can even have one — is alarmingly innocent. No trace of mischief. Just concern. That wide-eyed, alien kind of worry that somehow reads so clearly across a face that isn't built to show it.

A laugh escapes you, helpless and watery. It’s all too much: the cold, the shouting, the absurdity of nearly drowning because your emotionally unwell sea-friend decided to hijack your journey.

From the dock, someone’s yelling your name. You can hear Mom now, shrill with worry. The sound of boots clattering. The unmistakable click of a camera shutter.

"Aw!" someone coos. "He’s helping her swim!"

"Silly boy," you chide fondly, reaching out carefully with one stiff hand. "Trying to play savior after kidnapping my belongings."

But Raf remains where he is, letting your fingers brush briefly across the top of his slick head, his whiskers tickling at your inner forearm in soft bristles. The intent he has in looking at your face with those deep, unfathomable twin dark mirrors that reflect your own image back to you tells you he means something by it. Something significant. He whines quietly in the back of his throat, low and rasping. You hear something in him in that moment, something mournful. The sound seems to travel directly through water to nest itself inside your ribs.

"I'm very angry at you," you murmur, patting him gently one final time on the nose before pulling away. "Give it back."

He noses at your shoulder. As if asking for another stroke. As if he hasn’t done anything wrong. As if this is just another normal day in paradise and there isn't chaos unfolding overhead, nor witnesses observing the weirdest act of petty theft ever witnessed in these parts.

You wrestle the handle free from his surprisingly tight grasp and glare at him reproachfully, pushing the suitcase back towards shore like a surfer sending her board off on its own mission. You hear cheers from the direction of the ferry. More than likely, they assume you got whatever had attracted the seal's interest away safely and are celebrating accordingly. But Raf's cries behind you sound plaintive rather than victorious at having succesfully delayed your departure, almost apologetic. You ignore them stubbornly, instead focusing on getting yourself and the suitcase back ashore in one piece.

He's the better swimmer of course, so it doesn't take long for him to catch up with ease. His giant bulk bumps you repeatedly in the side like he's trying to help keep your head above water in case the weight of the luggage drags you down. He makes an obvious attempt at stealing it from you mid-stroke every so often, but he seems more interested in keeping you company rather than any real attempt at further sabotage, content enough to simply be nearby rather than running off again with his ill-gotten prize.

You reach the dock ladder exhausted and out of breath, Dad lifting you up bodily by your armpits onto the dock as though you weigh nothing while Raf circles below in clear agitation at not being allowed up onto dry land himself. Mom's clearly been fretting this whole time judging from her frazzled appearance when you finally make it to the surface again, wrapping a thick blanket around your shoulders with the urgency of someone trying to contain a small explosion and clucking over you like an anxious hen as Dad attempts to lure the wayward suitcase closer in order to fish it back in.

“You spoiled him,” she snaps, pointing an accusatory finger at the gray head still bobbing below. “He thinks he’s family. This is what happens when you let wild animals eat from your hands and sleep next to you. I told you this would happen. I told you.”

You know she's upset and concerned, but still it irks you to have someone else talk about Raf that way. Even if the trouble's been caused due to his bad temperament for the day. "I know he's not a pet," you snap. "He's just playing, Mom."

Dad looks up from his attempts at retrieval. "Have you noticed him becoming aggressive recently?"

You shake your head immediately, remembering the tenderness of Raf's worried attentions moments prior when you both had been alone together. The same worries which Mom is currently expressing aloud. "Not at all, no, and even if he were, we'd know because we've seen the signs long before it became a problem, Dad. Don't treat him like he's sick or rabid. That's just cruel. He's doing great."

Dad lifts both hands in defeat, giving up on making any sense of the situation.

"C'mon, let's get you changed," Mom decides finally, guiding you away towards the family ferry with one of your carry-ons trailing behind her.

You twist around to look for Raf — who hasn't seemed to realize yet that the two of you have abandoned their efforts — only to feel your chest clench painfully when you find him gone completely from sight, as though he never existed in the first place.

It begins the moment the dock recedes, the ropes unwinding from their cleats like threads unraveling from the hem of a shirt you can’t stop wearing, even when it no longer fits. The ferry groans forward. Beneath the swell and churn of propellers, your mother is still murmuring into the lid of her thermos, rehearsing the list of things she’s convinced you’ll forget the moment you step foot into the dorms, though she’s already said it twice, maybe three times.

You don’t register the splash. Not over the drone of the engine, the high, desolate cries of gulls circling overhead like winged punctuation marks. But others do. There’s a shift in the air — an intake, a thrum, a ripple of attention moving across the deck.

“Is that the same seal?” someone says, the words caught halfway between delight and disbelief.

You know before you turn.

There’s a charge in your chest, a tightening beneath your ribs, the inexplicable weight of knowing you’re being watched.

A streak of dappled gray breaks the water’s surface, sleek body slicing effortlessly through foam and wake.

Raf.

He is not basking lazily on sun-warmed rocks nor hiding in the shallows. No, today he swims in open waters, exposed, relentless, matching the ferry's steady crawl.

“Like a dolphin,” someone breathes.

You fold your hands into your coat pockets as if you could anchor yourself there, contain the vertigo rising in your chest. He’s never followed the ferry, never even crossed the cove’s border over to the populated areas. He was fine in the open sea, yes. But he liked the quiet vastness of it, the way the water stretched wide and unpeopled. What rattled him was the presence of others. Crowds. The tight concentration of noise and motion. Places where voices bounced off concrete and metal, where strangers reached and pointed and lingered too long with their eyes. He'd always skirted the edges of such spaces, drawn but wary, inching closer only to vanish when attention turned sharp.

He'd avoid the fishing boats, the ports, the children with their bright towels and sticky hands. You’d seen it — how the jerk in his posture came quick and absolute, how he slipped into the water like a breath held underwater the moment someone raised a voice. His world had rules, unspoken but absolute: stay hidden, stay safe, stay away.

And now — he is here. In the thick of it. Among the diesel-smudged air and the spectacle of faces. 

The significance lands with a weight that makes your knees ache. You’d never thought him capable of that kind of leap, of forsaking instinct for your bond.

And maybe that’s what stings most. That he would go where even people haven’t. That he would follow when others chose not to. That he would brave something that once made his whole body flinch.

For you.

The ferry’s path threads the archipelago, a slow, ceremonial glide from island to island, and it all blurs together for you. Wind-worn docks. Sun-cooked ropes. The same children pulling at their parents’ sleeves, the same vendors stacking crates of sugar fruit and bread. But everything feels warped now, longer, thinner, stretched too tight.

At the first dock, a fleeting relief brushes you when Raf vanishes beneath choppy waters. But as the horn blares again, he rises quietly in the ferry’s shadow.

At the second stop, he's already there, motionless except for water sliding over sleek skin.

By the third island, passengers cluster at the rails, children waving eager hands, teenagers pointing cameras. Raf remains indifferent to offered morsels, eyes fixed unwaveringly upon yours, burning through glass and distance. You retreat deeper inside the ferry, arms wound protectively around yourself, yet inevitably drawn toward windows, toward him.

By the fourth island, the ache in your shoulders deepens when he attempts a few calls to coax you outside. By the fifth, tears spill quietly, unnoticed at first, wetting the scarf your mother insisted you pack.

Most animals understand human patterns to an extent, even intelligent mammals like dolphins have been studied for their social intellect, but seals operate on different cognitive mechanisms altogether compared to the more popularly researched sea animals, and whether Raf could comprehend anything beyond being a nuisance at best for most folk still remained unclear.

Yet there he is.

He shouldn’t be. It defies all logic, all understanding.

Still, he remains. A persisting shadow gliding through the swells, never slowing, never drifting away. It unsettles you, piercing straight through to an ache you never knew existed.

What creature follows so long and so far without purpose or promise, unmotivated by hunger, curiosity, or reward? Even people, even the ones who swore they would, fall away. They fade, grow weary, choose different roads.

Yet Raf moves with a clarity of purpose so vivid it makes it hard to meet your reflection in the glass. His devotion is laid bare, stripped to an essence so pure it leaves no room for doubt or question.

He's following without even knowing where you’re going. That’s what gets you. That he has no map, no endpoint, no idea of how far or how long, or what he'll be encountering. The route is you. 

Even this feels insufficient, too simple to fully capture his drive.

Because he’s following something intangible — the grief of your impending absence, the anticipatory loss before you fully vanish, the outline of goodbye.

You press your knuckles to your eyes, heat blooming beneath your lids, something bitter and shameful tightening around your throat. You were unkind. Too sharp. You treated him like he was something ordinary like a kid throwing a tantrum.

He's following, of course he is. Because you're all he knows. Because you taught him connection, safety, love, companionship unique to humanity. He thought you to be permanent. Stable. And trusted that no matter what happened to you, even if something took you away from him temporarily, you would return. That's how it had always been like for three years now. And instead of saying your goodbyes properly, like friends would, like friends ought to, like he deserves, you had cut things short by storming off.

He was a fucking seal for god's sake, you wouldn't be able to text him later or call to apologize, or invite him around yours once you've settled down properly at school. What does he know about distance and change, time passing, plans changing, responsibilities?

What does he know about leaving, period?

The mainland bleeds into view like a wound stitched from concrete and steel. 

Steel-gray docks yawning out across the harbor, cranes like rusting skeletons, the skyline stacked with buildings and noise. The water darkens here, churned by hulls too large and too many, and everything smells like salt drowned in engine grease.

People swarm the terminal, dockhands shouting over backup alarms, tourists fumbling with overstuffed bags, someone loudly asking where the restrooms are in a dialect not meant for shouting.

You feel it before you see it, the grit in the air, the way the water thickens under the ferry’s weight, the scent shifting from brine and seaweed to engine oil and burnt plastic. The sky flattens. The noise rises. It’s too bright here, too many sharp edges. The city swells toward you with its teeth showing.

A break in the noise.

A wave of sound fractures across the dock, screams, laughter, confusion honed to a blade’s edge.

He breaches the harbor like a rupture. Like something breaking the surface that was never meant to be seen.

Back home in the archipelago, it would’ve been met with little more than a glance. A hum of acknowledgment. Maybe a laugh, if he bumped into someone’s net or made a mess of a drying line. Seals weren’t miracles, they were a fact of the shoreline. They barked at low tide, hauled out on back porches like they owned them, draped themselves across sun-warmed stones under strict observation and firm protection. The archipelago didn’t just live alongside them, it carved space for them. Regulations kept their beaches clear, nets modified, engines slowed. Raf wouldn’t have been strange there. Just another wet face in the crowd. Maybe even invisible.

But not here.

But here—

Here he is spectacle. Alien. Out of place and unallowed.

Their fascination curdles fast. Not wonder, not even confusion, but that wide-eyed, teeth-baring kind of hunger. The city doesn’t know how to love a wild thing unless it can be packaged. Catalogued. Consumed. And Raf, still panting and soaked, has become a glitch in the script they thought they were following.

Raf, soaked and singular, rising from the water as if the sea itself is offering him up is a slick blur of grey and glinting salt. He’s already on the ramp. Not floundering — no. He throws his body forward with that stubborn, undignified determination only he can wear like majesty.

Phones raise like weapons. Fingers twitch with the instinct to reach. No one touches him, but it’s not restraint. It’s restraint like a child watching flame, longing to burn their fingers just to see if it will scar.

He knows. You can see it in the set of his shoulders, the too-wide stance of his flippers, the way he never once turns his back. He’s pressed taut with it, the knowledge of being watched by a crowd that doesn’t believe he should exist in their space.

He’s never looked more out of place.

Never smaller.

His flippers slap against the aluminum. He grunts. He screams. He galumphs. There aren't any docks here, no rocks for him to perch on, none of the old familiar salty scent of ocean he's so accustomed to. There are strangers. Scents and sounds that frighten him. There is nowhere else to go but onward.

People scatter in the ferry. A cup of coffee drops. A camera flashes. Somewhere, a child claps.

He disappears for a moment, past the threshold, into the ferry’s belly.

By the time you reach him, he’s tucked himself into the far corner of the lower deck, pressed against the vending machine like it’s the last safe place on earth, chest still heaving, whiskers trembling, his flippers flush to his sides like some strange version of a hug. He doesn't respond immediately despite seeing you, seeming more stunned than anything else as if trying to make sense of this new environment.

"Raf, holy shit, I am so sorry." The words spill out all at once, almost clumsy in your hurry to get them out. The floor hums under your knees as you sink to them, the metal cold through your jeans. "Look at you, oh god, I'm so sorry I left you behind—"

Your name hangs between you, threaded through with things unsaid, the gravity of a thousand shared days suddenly coiled too tight.

When he moves, it feels like something unsticking — a bone sliding back in place, a bruise blossoming, a slow surrendering of distance. It shudders up his entire body, a tremble that works its way from toes to fins until his tail slaps the ground once, hard, a final, reluctant release of control.

And then he’s on you, squirming close and eager. Lumbering with relief and excitement, almost knocking you flat as he nuzzles and paws at your shoulder insistently with those giant paddles, still somewhat damp, shaking so hard his whiskers quiver. He huffs softly against you as if still having trouble believing you're truly here now after following the ferry all the way from home.

"Oh, my cutie pie, yes hi hello," you mutter quickly, attempting pet him while simultaneously keeping both your bodies from toppling over backwards. "I'm right here. No need to panic anymore."

After several minutes of vigorous cuddling, Raf finally settles a little when you continue scratching soothingly down his side, leaning into it like he's finally allowing himself to believe you're really in front of him now.

You sigh quietly through your nose, carding gentle fingers through his furry head as his rumbling squeaks resumes again within his chest.

"Yes, you were so brave. I promise you we won't do this ever again. You're amazing for making it this far and sticking with me the whole way. Good boy."

He flops against you bonelessly as if finally feeling safe enough to let his guard down now that you're both aboard together and seemingly alone for now. With no witnesses around to react negatively or try touching him without your approval first, he relaxes more and lets his eyelids droop, his snoring soft and pleasant.

"God, you're silly. Look at this... you think I've forgotten about you stealing my stuff? Oh no, honey, not today."

Raf sighs gustily, nudging your cheek with his nose in halfhearted protest.

You stare fondly down at him and consider what the hell you're supposed to do now. He can't remain here like he would be able to back home -- his home. Wildlife restoration would undoubtedly send someone to relocate him immediately if they got wind of it, and there's also the risk of getting cornered by animal control services who would come and take him away for fear he might bite or attack people if provoked. Not to mention the dangers of either being hunted or caught in a fishing net while being too tired to swim to freedom... The thought of either happening fills you with dread.

No, Raf can't stay here, this place isn't made for him.

It's good that he's currently in the ferry. Dad can take him back on board, since he'll have to turn around anyway to go home; surely, the crew won't mind another passenger along with them back across the channel.

"I'm sorry I made you push yourself," you say, even though it's just you and him and an empty, humming hallway. "And I'm sorry for not telling you goodbye properly. That wasn't fair of me. I was just so. So..." You shake your head, throat pinching dangerously. "I don't know why it didn't occur to me that leaving wouldn't be something like just going next door and I could come out and spend time with you when I wasn't so angry anymore. How could I think I'd see you everyday still?"

He offers only silence, save for the faint whistling in and out of his nostrils. His warmth steadies you, despite everything. Like standing knee-deep in an ocean that hasn’t decided yet which way to shift.

"This has to be animal abuse, right," you blurt, scrubbing roughly at your face.

He chuffs at you impatiently, bumping your elbow with his nose. When you look down, you catch the flash of one black eye gleaming in the low light of the ferry's hallways while the other is buried in the shadow of your coat. If he understands or not, you can never quite tell. But the look he gives you is oddly patient — tender, almost, the same gentleness that draws seabirds to follow ships, the instinctual tug of home and kin.

His chest puffs like he's inhaling a great lungful of something, then sags again, sputtering. It's impossible to tell whether he means to answer or just exhale noisily to distract you, but it does draw your attention nonetheless.

“Yeah, okay, thank you, heard loud and clear,” you continue, falling silent for a while. “You gotta leave though, Raf, you can’t stay here.”

He wiggles as if refusing, and you double down. “You can’t. You saw outside, people don't—it's not like home, there are more people living on this city than on the rest of the archipelago combined. And most of them haven’t seen animals like you doing what you did today before, and certainly not so closely... If word gets out, people might try to capture you, take photos of you, stuff you away inside a glass case... And it's gonna happen no matter where you go here because they don't have any wildlife landmarks like we have at home. At least there you're in open space. Here, if anyone catches you, you'd be taken away from me one way or the other."

He goes very still. Still like water before a wave breaks. There is a hush to him. A quality to his attention you recognize now — focus, not fear. Attentiveness, not alarm.

He's so smart. Impossibly perceptive and sharp. Clever as he comes. An animal with the intelligence of a human child twice their age. He looks up at you now as if trying to convey that he understands perfectly what you mean with the threat of danger inseparable from your explanation, and isn’t pleased by this.

"That’s why you have to be a good boy and let Mom and Dad drop you off back home, okay? You just need to stay where you are and let the ferry carry you away, okay? You'll be safe and sound. And I—"

Raf lets out an agitated squeal and begins pawing frantically at you, startling you badly as his flippers smack repeatedly at your sides. He scrabbles onto your lap with his awkward gait until you give him your hands and then, using them as a grip, squeezes your forearms urgently. There are sounds you don’t understand but recognize — indignant clicks, low croaks, mournful huffs. They thrum through his body as if through a flute. The noises vibrate somewhere between anger and distress, each one higher than the last.

“I’m not leaving you forever,” you breathe. Your voice is torn silk. “I’m not.”

He digs his claws harder into your forearms like an admonishing kitten, making insistent warbling calls back at you. He's upset, afraid; his vocalizations grow frantic, almost desperate, seeking reassurance.

"You can trust me on this one," you say, petting him gently, soothingly. "I'll come back. Promise. Okay?"

He whines pitifully against you, sounding unconvinced by the notion.

"For breaks and holidays, yeah, plus visits too. Just because I won't be around as much doesn't mean I've disappeared completely or abandoned you. I'll just be a little farther away for awhile and there will be more time between the trips to see each other."

And when Raf merely grumbles louder rather than showing any sign of having understood, you pull him closer into you, tucking his head under your chin protectively and hold him tight for as long as you dare, ignoring the ache beginning to blossom in your knees from squatting here on the cold floor, letting your pulse slow and fall in time with his own steady breathing. You run your hand down his smooth pelt one final time, savoring the sensation and imprinting it deep within your memory.

"I love you, you know that right?" You mumble into his silky fur, knowing he likely couldn't actually understand or process what that particular phrase meant aside from recognizing it as something he's heard countless times before and which calms you significantly every time it passes your lips, yet perhaps he does, or maybe there's the barest hint of comprehension from whatever he takes away from the emotional subtext rather than the literal meaning of your words. "I won't go ahead and forget you that easily. Never could."

In response, Raf shifts just enough so he can meet your stare, eyes like glossy ink drops blinking up at you slowly. Then he licks your cheek very firmly in an approximation of affection, prompting you to wipe your saliva stained skin with your sleeve.

Chapter Text

You come home for spring break with your sketchbook spine cracked from overuse and your first-year, first-semester syllabus crushed beneath half-finished elevation diagrams, smudged object labels, and two drafts of a museum display plan you still don’t understand. Your tote still smells faintly of plaster from the failed mount-building demo in your Material Culture and Object Handling class, fingers bearing charcoal from rushed object sketches and dry glue from a labeling prototype you smudged the night before critique.

There's also a bent metro card. A crumpled worksheet on humidity control from Fundamentals of Conservation. A balled-up napkin scribbled with a reminder to fix the syntax on your object description draft for Writing for Cultural Institutions.

It’s the quiet clutter of someone trying too hard to catch up in a world where everyone else seems to have already memorized the map.

You tell Mom you’re helping with the harbor cleanup, though the truth is you couldn’t spend another minute under fluorescent lights or in a dorm shared with three girls who somehow all seem impossibly ahead.

One’s a biology major who’s always lugging around a lab manual and her phone alarm goes off three times a night to remind her to check some ongoing culture assignment. Another is in photography and just got a feature on the campus arts blog, she spent the break taking foggy morning shots around the reservoir and somehow made them look like a film set. The third is majoring in media studies and recently joined the university’s documentary club, she’s been recording mock voiceovers at 2 a.m., softly narrating into her phone with the lights off like the room’s a sound booth.

You’re still figuring out how not to smudge your object labels or second-guess how to pronounce vitrines.

She doesn’t question you. Just hands you an old jacket and tells you to wear a scarf because she knows your next stop. The air bites harder this time of year, and you look like you’ve been hollowed out by deadlines and dorm-room junk food.

You take the ridge path out of habit. The same winding switchbacks carved into the cliffs, softened by briny grass and your own childhood footsteps. Your boots skid a little like you've already forgotten how to walk on this terrain. It’s stupid, probably. You haven’t been here since August. But your feet carry you to the cove where he used to wait for you — where he could still be. Maybe. You wouldn’t know.

The tide’s out. The sand is coarse and wind-swept, strewn with driftwood and slick stones that catch the light like wet coins. You sit on the rock you always claimed, smoothed by time and salt, and let the cold climb up through your jeans until it settles into your spine like a held breath. You hunch forward, listening to the water breathe in and out, over and over, like it’s trying to tell you something you’ve forgotten how to hear.

He doesn’t come.

You don’t whistle. Not this time. The sound is still tucked behind your teeth, tight in your throat, where it aches like something half-swallowed. It’s your call, your note, and it would rise easy if you let it. But right now, it would feel too much like an apology.

Instead, you press your hands to the earth, grounding yourself in its silence. Near your boot lies a broken fish spine, arched and pale, a tiny crescent of something once alive. You pick it up without thinking and tell yourself it’s just habit. Just instinct.

Back in the city, it ends up pinned beneath mylar in a shadowbox for your Introduction to Museum Studies course. Labeled neatly in pencil: "Unidentified specimen, coastal origin." You write it with disgruntled detachment, trying to echo the tone your professor used when reviewing everyone’s labeling drafts the week before. Your classmates brought in bits of pottery, manufactured junk, bones bleached too clean by city air. Yours smells faintly of brine.

You imagine Raf, briefly, nosing it toward shore like a gift. 

You come home again in April, skipping a mandatory field visit at the Maritime Conservation Annex. You were supposed to be cataloguing replica ship parts, jotting down environmental exposure notes, and identifying surface decay patterns. Instead, you take the overnight ferry with a knot behind your eyes and a sketchbook full of crossed-out exhibit themes and poorly shaded elevation diagrams. You haven’t slept. You haven’t called ahead.

You tell Mom you missed her, the fact that you’re already burnt out hidden under your tongue, affecting your speech with its sheer size. You say that you miss the foghorn’s groan in the morning and the smell of the tide seeping through the floorboards. She doesn’t argue. She just hugs you with arms that smell like rosemary and old soap, tells you the storm passed last night, and lets you sleep until noon, doesn’t comment on the dark circles under your eyes, and leaves a thermos of tea waiting for you on the windowsill.

The beach is wider than you remember. Stretched out and wind-swept, as though the tide’s been dragging its fingers farther inland in your absence. Or maybe you’re just weaker now, after months of stairs and static and deadlines. You walk anyway. Your body remembers how.

The cove is empty. But not untouched.

Shells form a crescent near the waterline. But that’s only what you notice first. Look closer, there’s more.

A pocketknife you lost in tenth grade, rusted but unmistakable.

The twist of ribbon from your old field journal, weighed down with a pebble. Even a museum flyer — sun-bleached, soggy at the corners, but somehow intact — folded into a crude triangle with teeth marks on it and pinned beneath a polished clam shell.

Your pink hair tie from last summer, faded and stretched, looped carefully around a shard of sea glass.

A cracked keychain from the ferry gift shop that had once jingled off your backpack.

A dried daisy chain from that sun-glutted afternoon you spent lying face-down in the dunes, your voice hoarse from reading funny tweets aloud and laughing when he splashed too close.

A bottle of cheap, glittery nail polish you swore you’d use for toe-dipping pictures but never did.

A torn polaroid, the edges warped with salt, showing a particularly flattering picture of you taken by your cousin just this summer.

Even your library card, still laminated, still bent at the corner, with a picture of a 15 year old you. 

Not scattered — placed. Tucked into the sand with intention, like offerings. Like memory made physical.

You crouch, brushing your fingertips over the nearest shell. Damp. Fresh. A trail. A message. A stubborn, silent kind of loyalty.

You sit down on the cold, salted stone, the one you always claimed, and pull your knees to your chest, fingers digging into the familiar grooves along the edge. Your hand brushes the lining of your pocket and closes around something small — your enamel ferry pin, the one from your very first shift, belonging to the family business. The metal’s dulled and the backing is loose, but the weight of it feels like everything you’ve been holding in.

You hesitate only a moment before you set it down between two stones, nestling it beside the knife and the ribbon like you're adding to an altar you hadn’t realized he’d built.

Then, using your index finger, you drag a line through the sand beside the offerings. It starts as an oval circle, round and oversized, and then you give it flippers, a belly, and an exaggerated frown that hooks comically toward its chin. Two tiny dots for eyes, drawn close together with a tight squiggle between them, a makeshift furrow where no brows exist, and curly whiskers of course. A giant, miserable seal stares back at you from the sand, all pout and slump and silent accusation. You snort despite yourself. It’s terrible. It’s perfect.

You whistle. A low, rising note that used to send ripples across the water, used to make him appear like something conjured. It hangs there in the salty air, stretching out toward the horizon, unanswered.

The wind pulls at your hair. The sea keeps its secrets.

You wait longer than you should. Long enough for the cold to settle under your fingernails, for your hope to thin out into something quieter.

And then, finally, you stand. Brush the sand from your palms. Turn back toward the path and go back home. 

The departure for summer break isn’t the relief of the finish line everyone else made it out to be. Your roommates had been buzzing about it for weeks — finishing final submissions, stealing extra dining hall muffins, swapping playlists for their train rides home, romanticizing porch naps and home-cooked meals and feeling proud of a year well survived. They spoke about it like the reward phase of some coming-of-age movie, like they had earned the softness waiting at home.

For you, it’s the world’s slowest walk of shame.

There’s no big exhale. No victory lap. Just the sun biting at the back of your neck and a guilt-shaped stone lodged somewhere under your breastbone. Your suitcase is heavier than the time you left with it, not with books or clothes, but with the silence of multiple failed classes, and a transcript that feels like a wound folded up in your back pocket.

You’ve already told your parents you needed the summer to "reset." They nodded. Didn’t ask. You think that’s worse. Like they’re afraid pressing would crack you open.

You don’t tell them about the grades. About the meetings. About the email with the subject line: "Academic Standing Review." You don’t tell them about the week you spent avoiding the registrar’s office or how you couldn’t sleep without hearing the chime of overdue assignment reminders in your head. Or the way you started flinching at the sound of email notifications altogether. Like the ping alone could pierce skin.

You don’t tell them how you cried in the library bathroom for an hour after your group presentation fell apart. Or how you walked out of your conservation final halfway through because you couldn’t remember the relative humidity range for organic textiles and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Instead, you clean your room. Fold your sketchbook closed without looking at the last page. You pretend. Harder than you’ve ever pretended before. Smile through dinner. Nod when spoken to. Sleep like it’s your only job. You spend a week pretending to be fine.

And then you go to the cove when you feel like you've earned the right to breathe.

You spot him just offshore the first day you return — a sleek dark head bobbing between the waves like a buoy with an agenda. Your heart skips, already caught halfway between hope and apology. But then, as if summoned solely to deny you, he dips back under before you can even part your lips.

You whistle anyway. The tune, meant to be light and teasing, comes out brittle. It cracks at the end.

He doesn’t come.

The next morning, you wake up early and rinse out a chipped enamel bowl, the one he always used to nudge with his nose like a dinner bell. You fill it with sardines and leave it by the tide line like an offering. By evening, they’re gone — but so is he. Again.

Day three, you escalate: you bring the ridiculous honking pink rubber duck he used to steal from your basket when you were in your horse desensitizing era and treat like sacred treasure. You place it in the sand and turn your back with forced indifference, sitting cross-legged and reading an old paperback you aren’t really following.

An hour later, he appears at the edge of your vision. He doesn’t approach — just watches. Stares. Then, without warning, he lunges forward, snatches the duck, and flings himself backward into the surf with an almost theatrical flip of his tail.

Day four, you whistle three times. He surfaces once.

Day five, you wade knee-deep into the water and shout his name. He appears a good thirty feet out and just... floats. Watching. Blinking. Drifting.

Day six, you bring the duck again. He doesn’t come. Later, you find the duck dragged halfway down the beach, left deliberately nose-down in a pile of seaweed.

Day seven, he waits until you’re packing up to surface. You turn around with the folded towel in your arms and catch him mid-dive, as if he’d timed it for maximum annoyance.

It’s become a battle of wills. He’s there, always. Just far enough to be unreachable. Just long enough to remind you he’s choosing this distance.

You whistle. He disappears. You sit. He surfaces. You move closer. He vanishes like smoke. Like he’s punishing you. Or teaching you a lesson. Or just enjoying the torment.

He hadn’t even made you work this hard the first time you met him, when you were fifteen and barefoot and slightly sunburned and he’d come right up to you like the sea itself had sent him.

But now? Now it’s like you have to earn him back.

You don't mind, you keep bouncing back. It’s like all the bad luck in the whole world has found their way to you once you left this creature’s side.

Nothing else is working to remedy this. Not the sleep, not the food, not the long walks with your phone turned off. You’ve done everything the counselors suggested. Advice from Reddit threads bookmarked at 2 a.m., typed by people who’d never met you but somehow still sounded kinder than you could stand. You tried all of it. Traced your breathing. Made gratitude lists. Journaled until the pages bled. Some of it helped for a few seconds, like aspirin against a broken bone. But you’re still unraveling.

You spend your mornings rewriting assignments that no longer count for practice to get better at academic writing. Afternoons rereading course emails with dates burned into your brain like scars. You’ve taken to organizing your notes by color-coded failure — red tabs for zeros, blue for extensions, yellow for all the things you said you’d redo but never did.

Even now, in the refuge of summer, you’re still chasing a version of yourself that keeps vanishing into the surf just like him.

You’re a string pulled tighter and tighter. A rubber band about to snap. Keep waiting for a release that doesn’t come. Even your dreams are full of waiting, missing trains, late exams, searching for classrooms that don’t exist. You wake up breathless, mouth dry. Every day feels like trying to outrun something just out of sight.

And the one place you thought you’d feel safe again won’t let you in.

It’s on the tenth day that you snap.

You come down to the beach after dinner, barefoot, your hoodie damp from where you dropped it in the sink. The sky is lavender and low. Your breath won’t even out, throat raw from holding back everything you can’t name.

He’s there. Lounging on his rock like a king. Indifferent to you.

It's the final straw.

You just crumple. One moment you’re standing there with the whistle still echoing out of your lungs, and the next you’re on your knees in the sand like the weight finally caught up to you mid-step. It’s not graceful. It’s not cinematic. It’s just broken. Pathetic. You curl up tight in the same spot you used to nap in when you were younger, half-shielded by dune grass and shadow, and dig your phone out of your hoodie pocket with hands that won’t stop shaking.

You open the group chat with Tara, Macie, and Simone. Hit record.

"Okay," you whisper, then immediately press the heel of your palm to your eye. "I — fuck, I’m sorry, I know this is so abrupt. I don’t know how to say this. I’m — I feel like I’m gonna fall out of my body or — I don’t know. I didn’t tell you guys. I didn’t tell anyone. I failed. Three classes. Not just badly — like, failed-failed. Like I have meetings and I’m on probation and I can’t — I can’t keep up and I thought if I worked harder it would get better and it didn’t, it just — it just got worse."

You’re crying too hard to sniff. Your breath is hitching like something’s wrong with your lungs. You keep recording.

"I can’t tell my parents. Not — not after I screamed about needing this. How I had to leave, how I was suffocating here and — and now what? I come back with nothing but a GPA circling the drain and I can’t—"

You make a sound like a laugh but it cracks halfway through.

You swallow this part down, but your brain cites it like tacks being rattled around in your skull. And Raf — he won’t even look at me. He won’t come near me. Like I’m nothing. Like I’m gone. I thought maybe — maybe it’s like, object permanence? Like babies? You leave too long and they forget you exist? Maybe he doesn’t remember me. Maybe I left too long and now I’m just—

You cut off with a sob you try to swallow, but it just rattles out of you louder.

"I don't know. I don't know, it's so fucking stupid. I feel so stupid. I thought I was gonna be — fine. Like, I thought I could handle it, just keep my head down and get through it, and now I’m on probation and I don’t even know what that means, not really, like how close am I to getting kicked out? How bad is bad? What happens if I can’t fix it next year, what if I can’t fix anything, what if I already ruined it — ? And I keep telling myself I’m gonna catch up but it just keeps slipping, and I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what any of this was for—"

You choke. Cough. Curl tighter.

Somewhere behind you, the sand explodes in a flurry of movement — snorting, huffing, frantic slapping. A full-body rustle and a high, unmistakable blubbering honk. It’s been happening for a while now, just filtering into your ears after the ringing in them starts fading away the more you let the poison drain by finally talking it out.

You pause the recording. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Then you hear it: a wet, frantic percussion — flippers slapping against the sand in a staggered staccato, speeding up like something big and heavy hurtling downhill. It's fast. Too fast. Just chaos and wobble and blind, blubbery urgency. Like someone dropped a weighted water balloon and it decided to sprint.

You barely have time to turn your head before it happens.

He rounds the dune like a meteor with a mission, sand flying in every direction, his eyes wide with purpose and panic. Raf barrels into view like a runaway suitcase filled with guilt and righteous offense. His body jiggles so violently with momentum that every bounce forward looks like he might detonate.

And he doesn’t slow down. If anything, he speeds up.

He slams into your side with the force of someone who’s never learned the meaning of caution, knocking you flat onto your hip with a surprised grunt that bursts out of you like a punched balloon. It’s not gentle. It’s not coordinated. It’s not even particularly graceful.

But it is immediate. And it is him. 

The shock of it jolts something loose in your chest. Your panic attack hiccups. Stalls. You suck in a breath that almost turns into a laugh. Almost.

He shoves his nose under your arm with a whimper and settles his full, ridiculous weight against your ribs.

You let the sobs come in full this time, but they’re softer now. Messy. Grateful. Raf makes a warbling, almost defeated sound, then promptly rolls onto his back like he’s surrendering to fate itself. One flipper flops out like he’s fainting. The other tucks to his chest. His stomach rises like a little hill of warmth and resignation.

You blink at him, chest still heaving, nose running, and before you can think twice, you collapse onto him like he’s a novelty beanbag chair you’ve been emotionally blackmailed into needing, it's a travel pillow made of grief and blubber and the kind that will most likely scurry away once you’re okay again.

By your second year, the returns aren’t marked by breakdowns or urgent flights from failure. They creep in like late rain. Unannounced. Not unwelcome, but damp with something you can’t quite shake off.

The travel is tiring in the dullest way — long waits, bad vending machine coffee, a stiffness in your back from sitting still for too long while your mind keeps moving, always spinning on what you should’ve done differently. There’s nothing glorious about it. You arrive with skin that smells like someone else’s laundry soap and a mind still half-occupied by half-finished drafts.

You’ve started disciplining yourself not to go back home often. Not every setback is a reason to run. Not every bad grade should end at the cove. You tell yourself this like it’s a rule, a boundary, a growing pain. The windows to return feel narrower now, less like open arms, more like checkpoints you have to earn your way through.

You think, if you treat it like medicine, measured and sparing, it’ll mean more. That it’ll hurt less to stay away if you’ve decided to do it on purpose. It’s an experiment in self-control. In learning to stand on your own two feet. You even write it down in your planner like a mantra: "Earn your quiet. Don’t escape to it."

But the restraint frays at the edges the longer it holds when it comes to the kind of silence that grows between living things when time stretches too far. Not quite a grudge. Not affection either. Just distance that’s had too much time to settle in its shape. That’s what you and Raf become. A shape that no longer fits the way it used to.

You think about the story your parents used to tell when they wanted to scare you and your siblings off your recurring "I want a pet" phases — the one about the cat they had to rehome when Mom got pregnant with your oldest brother. It used to sleep above Mom’s head every night, curled like a question mark on her pillow, purring against her scalp. They’d had her for years. She was part of the household. Then, overnight, she wasn’t.

Your parents didn’t sugarcoat it. The cat never forgave them. The neighbor said she’d hiss if she so much as smelled Mom’s perfume. She’d turn her back whenever Dad entered the room. Once, she growled loud enough to make Mom cry.

That story used to make you cry. Now it just makes sense.

You wonder if Raf has the same mechanism wired deep inside him — not quite revenge, not memory in the way people understand it, but something animal and old that withholds affection not out of cruelty, but out of instinct. A quiet kind of rejection. A closing off. Something cold-blooded in the way he recognizes you, but doesn’t rise to meet you. That primitive, wordless ability to turn away and mean it.

You try to explain it to yourself the way a naturalist might: that bonds can decay in the wild when time goes unaccounted for. That animals forget scent, forget the way something felt when it was constant. Even social species will let go of their own after too long apart. In flocks. In herds. Maybe this is just that — an adaptation. A recalibration. Nothing personal.

But it feels personal.

You tell yourself you haven’t cried over it. That you’re grown now. You know what he is. But every time he stays in the water, every time he looks at you and doesn’t move, it stings. Not like punishment. Like being erased from something you thought was permanent. Like being forgotten by someone who used to run toward you with open arms — or flippers.

He’s adjusted to the long gaps. You can tell. He doesn’t pace the shore or look toward the house. He’s not waiting. But he knows when you come back. He always knows.

When you come back in the autumn — briefly, for the week the university grants between midterms and burn-out — he doesn’t rush to the shoreline. He’s out in the water when you arrive, bobbing just past the drop-off like he’s part of the sea itself. You whistle once. He doesn’t respond with the same matching melodied chirps. Just snorts in response, slow and unbothered. You sit on the sand anyway, shivering through your hoodie, and talk about how you’re passing now. Barely. But still.

The sky darkens. He doesn’t come closer.

When you stand to leave, he’s gone.

You tell yourself it’s okay. You’d already decided not to need him the way you used to and start relying on the companionship of human beings like your roommates. But even then, you still find yourself slipping little things into the beach when he’s not looking — offerings without ceremony. A piece of your sandwich. A bandana that smells like you. Once, a silly pebble shaped like a heart that you almost pocketed but didn’t. You leave them near where you sit and pretend not to watch.

Sometimes, they vanish. Sometimes, they don’t. But the next time you return, there's something different. Arranged driftwood in a crooked ring. A crab shell turned upright like a bowl. That pebble in the middle of that bowl. 

You try not to read into it, but the pattern starts to form. You leave something. He answers. Never directly. But clearly.

So it becomes a back-and-forth. You bring objects. He rearranges the shore. Maybe leaves something in return like a weird trading conversation. It's not forgiveness. It's not closeness. But it's something. Like playing a slow-motion game across weeks and waves. Like he's reminding you that while he might not come close, he hasn’t forgotten how to speak to you.

You start playing back. You bring him things that are more intentional now — not random. A pink shell shaped like a comma. A bottle cap with a fish on it. You leave them in a particular corner of the cove, beside a rock he used to sun himself on.

When you return, they’re stacked differently, like he's shifted them with his nose. Once, you find the bottle cap perched carefully atop a stone like a crown.

It becomes a game with no score. You never talk about it, of course. You never even look at him when you do it. But he knows. And he answers.

Winter comes. You don’t make it home. Snowed in by assignments. Stranded by train delays and emails that stack up like debt. You keep a seal keychain clipped to your backpack. Talk to it sometimes when the dining hall’s too loud. It smells faintly like sunscreen and stress.

Spring break, you visit again. He meets you halfway down the beach this time. Doesn’t wait on his rock. Doesn’t flinch when you sit. You watch him nap for a full hour just as how things used to be like it’s a sacred ritual, your fingers itching to pet him, but feeling like you're probably not allowed to do that anymore.

Later, as you’re brushing the sand from your jeans and readying to leave, you notice something at your feet. A shell you didn’t bring. Pale and ridged, curved like a crescent moon. Nestled into the print your heel left behind.

And so it goes. 

The summer before your fourth year arrives with more noise than usual. There’s luggage on the porch that doesn’t belong to you. Voices in the hallway. Bright sandals left by the door. The smell of someone else’s shampoo in the bathroom and the clatter of your name being called from the kitchen in someone else’s cadence.

You brought them here — Theo, and the girls.

It still feels strange to say it in your head that way. Theo, and the girls. As if he’s earned his own category. As if he belongs to the orbit that’s always just been yours. Like naming him among them makes it more permanent, more real than you’re used to admitting.

Theo... Your first ever boyfriend, is a law major with immaculate notes and a resting face so unreadable it makes you want to fluster him on purpose. You only met because of an elective you got roped into by the girls — something general and discussion-heavy that promised easy credit and turned out to be anything but. The kind of course where you had to talk more than listen. Where participation was part of your grade, and no one let you disappear into your own thoughts.

You sat across from him, expecting nothing. But Theo asked questions like he wanted the long answer, like he was collecting your words instead of waiting for his turn to speak. You remember the way he used to furrow his brow when you talked about maritime heritage and museum archiving in that offhanded way you did — like your interest wasn’t worth noting, so you just cut your ideas short so the next person could start talking. He disagreed. Kindly. Plainly. Made you feel your voice belonged in the room.

Perhaps it was the constant turn of his head to your direction that pulled you in. Recognition and acknowledgment after being deprived of it.

It started small. Shared readings. Group projects. Walks back from lectures when the hallway buzz had quieted. Jokes over cafeteria food that weren’t really jokes. You noticed how he took up space without pressing against yours, how he listened without waiting to speak. He had this way of holding silence after you said something, like he was letting the weight of it settle before he answered. Until one day he showed up outside your studio with a coffee you didn’t know he knew you liked.

And slowly, it became a thing. Not a crush. Not fireworks. Just a closeness you didn’t pull away from. You didn’t even realize that’s what was happening. It wasn’t a thunderclap. It wasn’t even a spark. It was more like a slow tide pulling up to your ankles — gradual and persistent. Letting yourself be comfortable. Letting someone stay.

So, your answer was an automatic "Yes," when he asked if you wanted to go out with him. 

There was a safety in it. Someone to text when your class let out early, someone to split snacks with at the library, someone to carry your bag when you were too tired to ask. Someone to go eat out with when you’d otherwise stay inside because the act of being perceived felt too sharp that day. Someone who sat next to you on the train and didn't feel the need to fill the silence. You didn’t feel the burn of longing around him, and that felt... sustainable. Manageable. It felt like something you could keep without breaking it.

So when summer came, and the suggestion floated — "What if we went somewhere quiet?" — you offered.

You talked it up the way someone talks about a childhood pet they’re not sure is still alive, all warmth and vague descriptions. “It’s peaceful,” you said. “You’ll like it.”

They were curious. Of course they were. Macie wanted to swim. Simone asked about your favorite tidepool spots. Tara just smiled and told you it’d be good for you to breathe island air again. Theo didn’t push to know more about your life back at home. He just held your hand under the table when you brought it up to them, like the decision had already been made the moment you opened your mouth.

When they asked about Raf, you lied without blinking. Told them he didn’t always stick around this time of year — something about seasonal wandering, maybe mating behaviors. You said it like you’d read it in an article, even though you hadn’t. Even though you knew exactly where he would be if he were around.

Not because you were hiding him. Not really. Your girls already knew about your seal friend because you wouldn’t shut up about him. Your wallpaper and lockscreen were both of him, after all. Not to mention the album on your phone titled simply: “Cutie.” You’d shown them old videos. Clips of him flopping through the surf, close enough to touch. Of him screaming and making funny noises. 

But still. Still. Your friendship with Raf felt too private to be shared with anyone else. Like opening a box you hadn’t touched in too long, afraid the air would ruin what was inside. You were gatekeeping him before you realized there might not even be that much of a friendship left to show off. But that didn’t matter. You still didn’t want to introduce him to them.

Not even your parents had seen you with him. Not really. Not the way he used to follow you through the shallows like a shadow, not the way you used to press your face into his side like a warm, living stone and let the tide rise around you both. He was special and he was yours. You were proud of this connection you had carved out for yourself. Something wild and tender and unsupervised.

So, you don’t take them to the cove.

You pick another beach, one of the broader ones farther down the island — the kind people use for engagement shoots, family barbecues, the kind of place that shows up in someone else’s scrapbook, not your memory. It’s less intimate, less burdened by history. And that’s the whole point.

You tell them it was the easiest to reach. That the sand is fine, the tide pools were especially photogenic in the afternoon light. But deep down, you didn’t pick it for them. You picked it for your own comfort — because you know he wouldn’t be here. He doesn’t like crowds or people at all.

The sand here is pale and packed tight, the color of sifted flour. Flat rocks sit like little stages along the shore, and the tide pools glint with mica and tiny darting fish. Children shriek in the distance. Someone’s playing a bluetooth speaker nearby, something tinny and sun-soaked. The wind doesn’t bite here, it flutters its lashes. Everything about this place feels engineered for memory-making. Safe, palatable, curated. A beach designed to be preserved in pixels.

Theo lifts the cooler with one arm. Simone has the umbrella slung over her shoulder like a rifle. Tara trails behind, her flip-flops slapping rhythmically against the packed sand, laughing like the sun’s already sunk into her bloodstream. Macie’s filming everything — seagulls, a crab fight, the uneven hem of the horizon — and providing a running commentary in that absurd, exaggerated British documentary narrator voice that always makes the rest of you laugh.

You lag behind a few paces, pretending to dig through your tote bag for chapstick. Mostly, you’re watching their silhouettes bob forward, listening for how much of yourself is still tethered to them. You smile when they glance back.

They lay out the towels and start divvying drinks. Theo opens the cooler and gestures for you to pick first. You choose a juice box, half out of nostalgia, half because it’s easy. He leans into your shoulder with a quiet sort of ownership, chin pressing lightly against the curve where your neck meets your collarbone, his hand warm as it slides over your thigh.

The others break off like strands of sea foam — Simone crouching by the tide pools, pointing out green anemones and prodding gently at barnacles with the end of a sunglasses arm, Macie dancing backward to film a reel, Tara announcing she’s going to find “a rock with the most powerful energy.” You sink into the blanket, drink in hand, and pretend the sun is doing its job. The condensation slicks your palm; Theo’s elbow keeps knocking into yours each time he shifts, rummaging in the cooler for his drink.

Someone starts talking about sea glass. Macie thinks the little green shards come from old soda bottles. Simone insists some of it’s from shipwrecks. Tara finds a piece shaped like a heart and says she’s keeping it forever. Theo listens to them like it’s a podcast he’s only half-invested in, but he smiles whenever you laugh.

It feels ordinary. In that stretched, sugar-glazed way summer days do when you don’t look at the clock. You’re halfway through your juice when Macie’s voice cuts the day in two.

“Seal!” she cries, delighted.

You pause mid-sip.

Not startled — more like… struck. That word slices through the ambient noise like a tuning fork. Your body reacts faster than your brain. Somewhere in your chest, a thread pulls taut.

The others are already rushing toward the shore, sneakers kicking up sand. Simone’s got her phone out again. Tara gasps. “It's a chonker!”

“Are they common around here?” Theo’s voice is light as he squints toward the water. “I read something about conservation efforts in the northern colonies — tagging for tracking migratory habits.”

“They haul out sometimes,” you say. Your voice sounds far away. “Usually early in the season.”

You don't notice Tara staring, as if she's trying to ask you why Theo seems to be confused about the seal when it's common knowledge that you haul from a place with a seal population. 

“Get a load of this unit,” Simone says, laughing. “That’s not a seal, that’s a sentient ottoman.”

“I’m naming him Barnaby,” Macie announces. "Bernadette if female."

You rise without thinking.

The voices of your friends flatten into background static. Theo’s muttering about population markers again, something about dorsal notches and flipper scarring. Someone suggests a group selfie with the seal in the distance. You’re already stepping past them.

You move toward the shoreline like someone being pulled forward by the collar. The closer you get, the more the light shifts — the kind of shimmer that makes everything blur at the edges, like film that’s been left in the sun too long.

From a distance, it could be any seal. Big, lazy, glinting like riverstone in the tide. But your eyes track instantly to the shape bobbing just beyond the last rock.

You pass Macie, who’s still narrating. “Seriously, look at the spot pattern. He’s like a limited-edition beanbag.”

You stop just at the lip of the water, salt wind catching in your hair. The waves break around your feet like hands brushing past. The light fractures. You squint.

Then he shifts. Just slightly.

A tilt of the head. A flash of familiar scarring on the shoulder area. The slope of the skull. The unruly whiskers. The uneven patch where fur never quite grew back right.

That’s Raf, alright. No question.

What the hell?

It isn’t just that he’s here — it’s that he’s somewhere he never should be.

Raf doesn’t come to beaches like this. You know by heart now that he sticks to his own territory, avoiding crowded places the way skittish animals avoid noise, the way anything too aware of its own edges avoids spectacle. He has always preferred the cove, quiet and thick with sea mist, where nothing moves unless it belongs. Even during summer’s peak, when the whole island feels like a postcard come to life, he stays tucked away, content in his own paradise. You’d have to wait until sunset, until the last paddleboarder left, before he’d even dare surface. Sometimes not even then.

So seeing him now, in daylight, under the loudness of other people’s joy, within reach of clumsy sandals and cell phone lenses…

If you had to explain it, you might say this: that all those things you try to swallow — the loss, the homesickness, the worry — well, it all congeals into the same ache deep beneath your sternum. It manifests physically as if there was a physical place inside your chest cavity where emotion collected like sediment or rust or bruised fruit. It comes out in flickers, in ways you can't control. Things set it off: memories, sounds, smells, sensations you'd grown up being conditioned to associate with nostalgia and happiness in your subconscious, regardless of whether those things actually did make you happy anymore or not — just the trigger stimuli alone would bring about the longing that'd cause tears to prick at your ducts immediately, if only for a second.

Seeing him suddenly brings your feelings surging up in the same abrupt way they do when you're alone in your dorm room, trying to survive finals week. Now that he's there on the other side of the sea when you're over here with new friends surrounding you when it used to be just you two, a familiar tightening sensation unfurls inside, like something getting caught and torn in the cogs of your ribcage. It aches worse than you expected.

"Wait, though. Do we know if that's your seal buddy?" Macie asks, grinning widely. "Do you think I can pet him?"

"It is Raf, and no," you tell her firmly. "Just leave him be."

She gives you a surprised look. "You sure? They don't bite, do they? Or slap?"

"They won't but still..." You gesture vaguely towards the rest of them with a helpless shrug as you attempt to maintain control over your emotions, willing the lump forming at the base of your throat to dissipate.

"Seal buddy?" Theo asks. He's come up to your side without you noticing and has placed a comforting hand on your waist.

"You haven't told him about Raf?" Simone arches an eyebrow, looking amused. "The familiar to your sea witch?"

"C'mon..." you whine, not noticing the look you're being given by your boyfriend.

"Huh," he confirms after studying you intently for several long seconds.

A beat of silence passes between your group, a few questioning glances exchanged, before Theo speaks again, his tone carefully neutral. "We were dating for almost five months and you've never mentioned being friends with a seal?"

You couldn't just say that it naturally didn't come up when you in fact did not stop yapping about Raf to your roommates. It felt... childish. Self-centered, like bragging. Theo had a certain level of maturity beyond what you possessed, so it seemed fitting to keep quiet about how special and close you were with your adorable animal companion rather than risking exposing yourself as someone who talks about seals more someone with a marine biology major. You weren't exactly trying to hide it per se, either, more so keeping the information regarding the subject matter private and away from any potential prying or mocking... or perhaps the feeling itself.

Despite having already shared it with your friends.

…

Yeah, honestly, you don't know why you didn't tell him earlier, now that you think about it. It makes for a particularly awkward silence, as well.

One that gets interrupted by Tara's, "Oh my god, is he coming over here? Look!"

You whip around and indeed see Raf paddling his way onto shallow waters before picking up speed as he closes in on your location.

"That settles it. We gotta film this. Do you think it'd go viral?" Macie says excitedly, pushing play on her camera app while taking aim at you and Raf approaching.

"Viral," you mutter drily under your breath as you slowly start walking deeper into the water with the intent of greeting your friend properly for the first time since arriving at home.

Theo watches from the shoreline silently as everyone else bursts into applause and cheering once Raf arrives and immediately hops closer to you instead of anyone else present despite them attempting to coax him over with promises of food and various petting session offers, something they complain loudly about behind you.

"Hey, you little fucker," you grouse once within earshot, crouching down like a gangster stationed by a random corner on the pavement, elbows on knees. The words hold absolutely zero heat to them. "You've been giving me attitude bigger than your body mass ever since I left and now you decide to hobble on over when I'm with company? Really? You're like my mom trying to keep up appearances when guests come over. Who the heck do you think you are?"

Raf croons and chatters in response, nuzzling your bare legs affectionately before flopping heavily on your feet. He proceeds to roll around in the wet sand, looking every bit of pleased with himself for drawing a laugh from you when he looks up expectantly with wide, adoring dark eyes blinking innocently up at you.

Ha, look at this guy acting cute.

As if you weren't literally deprived of his presence for nearly the entire time you were away because he was too pissed to see your face, you realize with a sharp twang of bitterness, shaking your head in mock annoyance at the unfairness of the situation. What bullshit timing. He has to be doing this on purpose at this point. The big brat.

"Wow," your friends remark in awe simultaneously at the display occurring before their very astonished selves.

"So tame,” Theo remarks.

He pays them no mind whatsoever. Instead, his sole focus remains on you as he rolls upright so he may rear onto hind paws and balance against your bent knee. His whiskers tickle your skin, hot snorts stirring loose strands of hair fallen over your face, dampness from his breath transferring to your forehead. It's like he's giving you a vibe-check, sniffing you all over with little to no care towards the peanut gallery currently filming everything happening.

"This is fascinating," Theo comments from somewhere nearby, likely observing your interactions closely together with Tara and the rest. He comes to crouch beside you for a closer look. "I honestly thought they wouldn't engage humans unless approached first. Then again, I guess you've managed to build enough trust with that one to encourage friendly interaction..."

It's almost in slow motion that Raf turns his head towards your boyfriend, and to your absolute shock, curls his back in a way you've never see him do before, baring his teeth at Theo in the most hostile display you've ever seen from a creature known to have such a placid temperament.

It's when the unfamiliar purring-rumble starts rising from his throat that you come back to reality and tilt your body away from a jaw-dropped Theo, effectively making a barrier between the two. "Oh my god, no, Theo, I'm so sorry! Please back off, okay? Just take a couple steps back, please, and I'll handle this—"

The rumble becomes louder, sharper. To the surprise of everyone present, Raf crawls over your leg and hip possessively like a large lapdog might climb into a couch and lie on their owner for warmth, deliberately placing himself in between you and a wide-eyed Theo, staring pointedly at your boyfriend until he backs away completely to rejoin the girls watching with horrified fascination on the beach. You breathe a sigh of relief knowing he did not bite nor hit anyone in his frenzy.

It takes you pulling back to sit flat on your butt that he relents finally and allows you to maneuver him onto your lap so you may bury fingers deep into the thick, dense fur around his neck area and massage him into calm submission. "What is with you today," you reprimand softly as the aggressive sounds gradually subside into gentle yips. "I thought you forgot me or something, and now look at you. Like no time passed at all."

Raf doesn't seem apologetic in the least, if the way he snuggles even closer in your arms and throws in a lick across your cheekbone indicates anything. With his chin hooked securely over your shoulder, tail thumping loudly against the water splashing quietly against your entangled legs, it seems pretty evident he has no plans of going anywhere anytime soon.

"I know I shouldn’t be surprised after seeing everything on your phone, but are seals really supposed to behave like this?" Macie asks aloud uncertainly, putting her camera down.

You shrug, absently continuing to knead downwards along Raf's side. He shifts under your hands, the smooth, slippery texture of his skin bunching under your fingertips pleasantly as he leans further into you with increasing insistence.

"He's just domesticated," Simone offers, coming closer to better assess the situation. "Look, he's not food motivated."

"An expert family friend of mine told me I could have formed a small pod with him without knowing it. Like, a unit of a colony."

"Like a bonded pair?" Tara joins in.

"Maybe the word you're looking for is just bonded. He could have imprinted on her. Like a duck," Theo adds helpfully, gesturing to where you've now begun rubbing down your sulky seal friend's tummy while he rolls over unashamedly on his back for easier access. He's got his phone on his hand, gesturing to some article he found in no time. "This says young pups follow people they initially attach to for several minutes after birth sometimes and perceive them to be their mother. When exposed to higher levels of maternal influence after development, the bond grows stronger than it would have otherwise been possible to sustain by nature alone."

Raf grumbles soft under his breath, seeming disgruntled. What the fuck does he have to sigh about like that as if he's a single mom who works two jobs? He's not even an arctic seal who has to deal with diabolical orcas gunning after him 24/7.

But you're more concerned with this scene unfolding right now when you barely had any interaction with Raf over the past couple of years. He's being clingy when it was so obvious he was being distant and cold like a normal person would've behaved after a falling out...

And yes, it does sting quite badly for having the reunion be made to witness and scrutinized over by near-total strangers while your friends are having a conversation about seal behavior and looking things up on the internet in the background.

It really hurts even more since you expected a much earlier reception given your efforts at reconciliation... and then here comes Raf randomly deciding he's now okay on a random day for seemingly no reason whatsoever. Talk about emotional whiplash. What happened to the sulking and stubborn refusal to interact? Where did that go?

Well. Better late than never?

Hours pass. Eventually, the beach is emptying out.

The laughter is gone, or far enough to feel like it. Distant chatter rides the salt wind, but it doesn’t reach you, not really. The sky has bruised into mauve, sea lavender and charcoal layered thin across the horizon, all color is being dragged out like a damp cloth wrung slow.

Macie was the first to suggest heading back when the sour mood of Theo didn’t get any better, already talking about post-beach showers and cooking for your parents who’ve yet to return from the ferry for having them over. Simone followed with a promise to upload the best photos. Tara stayed behind just a little longer, watching you in that gentle, perceptive way of hers, before slipping away to give the two of you a space. Your towel is still damp beneath you, your bag a mess of half-unpacked things. And Raf hasn't budged from your side, pressed warm and firm into your hip as if anchoring you to this exact spot.

Theo stands a few feet away, arms crossed, half-turned toward the sea. He hasn’t spoken in minutes. You can feel it brewing though, like pressure in your ears before a storm.

When he finally does speak, he doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s a moderated accusation to it that makes your stomach tighten. “So... were you ever planning to tell me about him?”

You keep your eyes on your towel, fingers worrying at a loose thread that’s already frayed beyond saving. “It's not like I was keeping it from you, it must have just slipped my mind to mention it or something.”

He shifts, crossing and uncrossing his arms, feet grinding into the sand with impatient little pivots. “That’s not the part I’m stuck on,” he says, voice level. “It’s that everyone else knew. It didn't slip your mind with them.”

You lift your gaze briefly, catching his silhouette framed in the bleeding dusk. “I really wasn’t trying to hide him or something. I don’t talk about a lot of things.”

Theo’s shoulders fall with a tired breath. He’s not angry. Just tired. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

The air between you feels suddenly thinner.

You turn toward him fully. He’s wearing the expression you’ve come to recognize when he’s calculating every word before he says it. It’s hard to tell if it’s a personality trait or something his law professors taught him.

“I didn’t tell you about Raf because I didn’t know how,” you admit, the words small, almost fragile. “He was my best friend for years. And then... he wasn’t. I haven't properly spent time with him for three years now, the best I do is just seal watching from afar, and that's whenever I get home, which is. Sparse.”

He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, jaw flexed.

“And then today, out of nowhere, he’s back. Like nothing happened. It's like my first proper interaction with him in forever.”

“I’m not asking for a play-by-play. I just want to know why you couldn’t share that part of your life with me. You're changing the subject.”

“I don't know,” you mutter, rubbing your palm against your leg. “It didn't occur to me I could. And I liked... I liked how clean things were with you.”

His brow knits. “Clean?”

“Like I didn’t have to unpack the past every time we talked. I could just be in the moment. Maybe that's why it didn't cross my mind at all.”

Theo exhales through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair with restless fingers. “And what moment are we even in now?”

You blink at him, the question hanging too heavily to dodge.

“Because I’ve been your boyfriend for five months—"

The seal in your lap jerks so suddenly as if shaken up from deep sleep to do a double-take between you and Theo with a distinct sputter and a sneeze, and you momentarily miss some of what's being said to you from watching the weird flailing in front of you.

"—sometimes I still feel like I’m waiting to become one. You sit beside me. You let me hold your hand. You even sleep next to me. But half the time, I feel like I’m dating someone who’s barely in the room.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Isn’t it? You’re nice to me. You show up. You laugh. You don’t want to hurt me, I know that. But it’s like I’m an accessory in your day, not a person you’re choosing.”

Your gaze drops. Raf is staring off into the distance like a shell-shocked war veteran for some reason and you swear his eyes are about to look in different directions.

Theo watches your fingers curl into the seal’s coat.

“Do you even like me?”

Your head snaps up. “Of course I do.”

His next words are quieter. “I mean... do you like me? Not just the idea of being with someone. Not just what I represent, or how I don’t ask too much. Do you like me?”

You part your lips, the response on the tip of your tongue — except it isn’t. The panic hits before the words come, tightening your chest, making the air feel wrong in your lungs.

Theo closes his eyes like he already has the answer.

“I think I’ve been trying really hard not to admit how one-sided this feels,” he says. “But I can’t do that forever.”

You reach toward him — instinctively, helplessly. Your hand hovers mid-air.

“Listen, Theo, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he says quickly. His face twists for a fraction of a second. “I know you didn’t. That’s the thing. You’re not cruel. You just... keep your distance. You never come to me for anything. Not once. I know you’re struggling with your classes. You get weird when someone mentions midterms. You disappear for days when grades drop, and when I ask how you’re doing, you say ‘fine’ like a robot. You don’t talk to me about any of these things.”

“I don’t need to dump that stuff on you.”

“It’s not dumping if I’m your boyfriend,” Theo says, caught between ache and frustration. “You don’t lean on me. You don’t share anything with me. I’m just... here. Being reminded I’m that insignificant and held at arm’s length every. Single. Day.”

Raf shifts again. There is a slowness to his breathing, a cadence like the tide. If he is listening, you cannot tell.

Your throat feels too tight. Theo sees it before you manage an answer.

He sighs. It sounds weary, like someone reaching the bottom stair.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Everything in you wants to refute it, deny him. But you know it wouldn't matter, because he isn't asking questions anymore; he's stating facts. And somehow, that makes everything worse.

You pick anxiously at the dead skin at your thumb's cuticles until the urge to apologize overwhelms everything else.

"I'm so—"

Theo raises his hand abruptly, stopping you short. "Don't. I don't need an apology."

A beat passes in uncomfortable silence. Raf grumbles, unhappy.

"Then what do you need?" You mumble under your breath.

"For you to see me as your person," Theo responds bluntly, staring intently down at your stunned features. "Or maybe just as someone who matters more than the stupid seal on your lap you're petting like a dog while having an important discussion."

You wince as if scalded, retracting your hands. "I don’t, I—!"

"Then look me in the fucking face when you speak to me," he barks harshly, scowl growing increasingly prominent. You've only seen Theo mad once or twice before, but he doesn't explode or break things. His anger is contained and icy cold instead. Raf doesn't like the way he's raising his voice at you, his huffing is getting more frequent now. "Or maybe stop sitting there like the victim and give me the courtesy of standing up and talking to me with actual intention rather than treat our relationship like some hobby you take on between finishing whatever homework is due? How would you feel if I treated you like a second choice friend whenever we meet up together? Think carefully."

There's something final about the way he ends the sentence, like shutting a door. Or snapping shut a notebook. Like wrapping up a case and moving on. For someone so impossibly empathic, so effortlessly considerate, you wonder if he finally reached the end of his rope. If you had worn him down, after all.

"I'm sorry," you find yourself saying anyway, hoping he would be kind enough to accept the olive branch.

But Theo only shakes his head slowly with lips thinned in repressed irritation. "Don't do that," he cuts you off curtly. "I told you I don't want apologies."

Something tenses in your gut. Maybe it's guilt. Maybe shame. It sours too quickly for you to sort it out.

Raf has been statue-rigid for a while now, his body coiled tight underneath your palm resting just over his ribcage — sensing the discordance, no doubt, alerted by the spike in tensions among the two of you.

"I think we need to rethink this whole thing," Theo says, looking directly at you with solemn, resolute conviction gleaming in his eyes. You understand what it means immediately. It isn't anger so much as sadness that draws itself around him, making his shoulders round, his mouth stern. He rubs a knuckle absently against his temple. "I seriously need some space. I can't keep putting in effort on my end while getting practically nothing back on yours. Frankly, it's been taxing and frustrating beyond belief."

"We could—" you pause, realizing there's absolutely nothing you can offer that would be viable. You don't have the same qualifications to make things work out as he did, nor can you convince him otherwise knowing this much of what you put him through. It wouldn't be fair to either of you. So all that's left for you to say is: "Is there anything I can do to fix this? Do you want me to..."

There is nothing more pathetic to finish your sentences with besides crying, begging and offering ultimatums — and none of those are appealing options.

"Look," Theo says, visibly restraining himself from pacing the way you've seen him do whenever frustrated with a difficult case to crack, and you feel horrible knowing full well that most of your interactions will likely leave him feeling this way. "I appreciate what we had over these past few months... It was good to spend time with you. But honestly, it'd just be healthier for us both if we put it on hold right now until you figure out what it is that you really want, and then I'll reopen negotiations."

Silence follows for a brief moment. Raf lets out a long whine, which causes you to snap out of the funk of despondency you momentarily sunk into, remembering he's still very much present, listening to everything, perhaps like a child overhearing his parents arguing.

"Okay," you croak, suddenly feeling unworthy of your boyfriend's presence. "Yeah, okay, I get it."

You don't even get the last part of your sentence out, which was thanking him for being patient with you before he's talking again.

"I'm gonna try to catch the last ferry," he tells you calmly despite the heartbreaking disappointment written all over his features. You nod along mechanically without meeting his searching stare, looking downwards in avoidance. There's a twinge of resentment at yourself for treating someone as wonderful as him this way, regardless of whether your actions were consciously intentional or not. "It's been nice here but the space thing, you know... Give my apologies to your parents and tell them it was a family emergency. I’ll talk to the others.”

All you can do is bob your head woodenly as an acknowledgment while keeping your line of sight trained elsewhere lest he notice the tears beginning to build up inside your lower eyelids. Everything feels wrong in this exact moment, like nothing you could've done or said will rectify anything.

His footsteps retreat away after a short silence, the distinct sound of the plastic handle on the cooler creaking softly under its increasing pressure, sand rustling audibly underneath.

Then you're alone — truly alone — for the first time in hours. The breeze kicks up, salty and cool off the water. You wait till the crunching pauses; until Theo reaches the place where footpath meets pavement, out of earshot. Until the world contracts around you. You let out a shaky sob, one fist digging into Raf's coat. A series of pitiful squeaks respond.

"I got dumped over a seal," you wheeze out shakily, fingers clenching deeper into damp fur.

You realize it's more than that, but the shock numbs everything else. You not mentioning Raf to Theo somehow snowballing into being perceived as emotionally distant and disengaged is such a surreal thought to contemplate that it takes awhile for your brain to catch up.

Your stomach knots so tight that you bend double, forehead dropping against your knuckles. Raf brings his nose to rest at your temple. Wet heat slides along your cheekbone, snuffles once, then again, the edge of his whiskers twitching against your temple like he’s thinking hard. He lets out a chuff, a ridiculous, gravelly little exhale that vibrates against your skin. You don’t know if he’s annoyed, apologizing, or just reacting to the taste of your tears.

You sniff. Wipe your face with the back of your wrist. “You’re really a homewrecker.”

He makes a low, rumbling sound in his chest.

“Don’t sass me,” you whisper.

But the way he edges in closer, until your whole side is engulfed in damp fur and quiet warmth, makes your throat seize. You shut your eyes. Let your fingers dig into the pelt at his shoulder, where his scar discolors the fur. Your grip trembles.

“But I really didn’t think he’d leave,” you say, barely audible.

Raf’s head nudges under your chin, blunt and persistent, until you have no choice but to raise your face again. He’s looking up at you with that same familiar gravity behind his eyes that always made you feel seen. Not observed. Seen.

And it unnerves you a little.

“I didn’t think you’d come back either,” you admit, voice cracking. “So I guess it’s somewhat of a law of equivalence.”

He presses his forehead to yours, gently, like something instinctive and unceremonious. You feel he’s not trying to comfort you so much as just… be there. And for a second, it really does feel like time folded back in on itself, and you’re seventeen again with sand in your socks and unburdened giddiness in your chest, laughing into his neck after some awful day at school like he was the only part of your world that made sense.

“I missed you a lot though, buddy,” you whisper. You’re not sure whether it’s a confession or an accusation. Maybe both. Underlying with the strange emptiness of what this separation means to you. The fact that you’re here with Raf right now means a lot more than Theo leaving you. And you’re not sure how to feel about that other than the fact that you must be a grade A douche.

Usually it’s a man that exhibits this behavior. You don’t know how to feel about that, either.

Raf noses your collarbone, then burrows closer with a dramatic grunt. Like he never left. Like this spot — your side, your lap, your shoulder — is still his, and he’s reclaiming it without apology.

You laugh, but it cracks open into something hoarse. Something wet. An egg dropping an embryo to the pan instead of yolk. You bury your face in his neck like it’s the only place left you can do that safely. He smells like salt and sand and the faintest undertone of seaweed, but his warmth remains unchanged.

You don’t know if you should be angry with him or grateful. He might’ve cost you your relationship. Or maybe he served you a lesson about one that was always a little too one-sided. You don’t know. You don’t know anything except that he’s here now, curled into your ribs like a message in a bottle finally finding its destination.

You sigh into him, your voice small. “You really couldn’t have picked yesterday to be emotionally available, huh?”

Raf whines softly. Rolls to his back and kicks his flippers like he’s throwing a tantrum. His belly’s damp and ridiculous and offered to you like a truce.

You let out a snort and swipe at your eyes.

“I can’t believe this is my life.”

You flop onto your back beside him as the tide kisses at your ankles again, more gentle now. As if the sea itself is easing back. Raf’s breathing slows, matching yours.

And in the quiet between waves, you think, not for the first time, not for the last, that maybe he came back because he knew this moment was coming. That maybe he knew you’d need him, right here, right now.

Some part of you says, Nah, he’s a homewrecker.

You graduate, and eventually end up right back on where you started with your shoulders braced like someone expecting to be hit.

You don’t join the cap throwing ceremony, or any other party with the excuse you unfortunately don’t have time for any of that. You get your diploma like it’s a shady deal in an alleyway and go your own way.

The thought of maybe — maybe — coming back home for the last time would feel like slipping into warm water is at the back of your mind — strange at first, but comforting once your body adjusts.

It doesn’t.

The sea greets you the same way it always has — without ceremony, without apology. Not like a mother welcoming her child, but like an old employer who never removed your name from the roster. You step off the boat with all your belongings, and the wind claps you on the back, and the salt is in your mouth before you even say “I’m home,” as if to tell you to get back to work.

That’s all there is to it. Slap the, “That’s all folks!” title card on it.

The sea still smells the same — wet iron, salt, the distant sweetness of fish — but it doesn’t comfort you. It clings like dead weight you have to carry on your back, stains your clothes, settles in your hair, crusts behind your ears like it’s trying to remind you: you belong here. Like it never really let you go. Like you’re Sisyphus rolling his boulder up the hill as always, except you drag it around like a pet rock now, one that is visible to everyone. One everyone recognizes.

You’re the girl who left. The one who came back with nothing.

You wanted to leave, though. God, you had wanted out so badly.

So you picked something clean. Something quiet and shiny that didn’t come with fish guts and engine grease. Museum studies. Archival work. Something that would let you tell stories about the sea without having to live inside its salt-stung grip. Something you could point to and say: See? I made it out. I became someone else.

You imagined glass cases and curated lighting. Climate control and respectability. People in linen suits asking for your opinion on preservation techniques. You imagined being good at it. Sharp. Polished. Like you were a cultured socialite and your hands had never once smelled of fish and that white-collars didn’t look down at you as though you were a second-class citizen for it. You clung to that dream like it was a life raft. Like it would keep you from becoming Dad, Mom, your whole line of weary sea-anchored ghosts.

University didn’t spit you out so much as it starved you slowly.

You told yourself it would be delicate — artifacts and silk gloves, white walls and whispered, distinguished voices of explanation and storytelling. But you weren’t ready for how different it would feel to be constantly behind. Always catching up. You watched people glide through it all — the lectures, the essays, the study abroad placements — like they were born into it. You weren’t.

You didn’t speak the language. You wrote too plainly, too tangibly. You didn’t know how to dress your thoughts up in academic language or play the intellectual performance they all seemed to have memorized. You didn’t know how to use a theory as a shield or a weapon, didn’t know how to say absolutely nothing in five polished pages. Your sentences were called “too literal.” Your ideas “lacked depth.” You began second-guessing everything you wrote. Every time you turned in a paper, you waited for it to come back bleeding red, like a wound reopening.

You sat in the back and took notes while others quoted theorists by name, confident and smooth and laughing with professors after class like they were friends while you could curl into a shrimp trying to show respect to their profession. That’s what you were taught. You didn’t know you had to ‘befriend’ those professors to get to places. Didn’t even know it was an option in the first place.

You stayed up until your eyes burned. Took out loans that made your stomach twist. Lived on discount noodles and cold coffee while kids in pressed coats talked about internships their relatives arranged for them in cities lacquered with prestige — all colonnades, opera houses, and museums with wings named after patrons whose names you’d only ever seen etched in gold above arched doorways. They breezed into networking events while you stood near the drinks table, gripping your plastic cup and trying not to sweat through your only decent shirt.

You couldn’t afford the unpaid internship your program said was "essential." You tried. God, you tried. Sent emails. Wrote cover letters. Offered to do anything, even just data entry. But you weren’t the kind of student they wanted — no fancy last name, no family connections, no recommendations from tenured faculty who actually remembered your face. You weren’t someone they saw potential in. You were just... competent. Just fine.

You spent a whole semester trying to figure out your thesis — circling topics like a vulture over carrion. And per usual, everyone else seemed to already know what they were writing about, already had advisors clapping them on the back, already had titles that sounded like published books. You kept second-guessing yourself. Too narrow, too vague, too personal. Everything you proposed sounded childish out loud, stripped of the wonder you felt privately.

Eventually, you landed on something about regional maritime artifacts and their cultural displacement — a fancy way of saying: the things that reminded you of home, stolen and pinned to museum walls. You thought it might be enough.

It wasn't.

Your advisor called it "charming but unfocused." You rewrote it four times. Each time it became less yours. By the end, you barely recognized what you were arguing. It passed, technically. You walked the stage. But it didn’t feel like a win. It felt like crawling across the finish line on bloodied knees.

You went to info sessions and forced yourself to shake hands. You printed business cards and smiled until your jaw ached. You went to office hours and tried to form a rapport with professors who always seemed to be glancing past you. You sat in lobbies for interviews you never heard back from. You applied for conference scholarships and didn’t get them, starting to realize there were doors you simply weren’t meant to walk through.

Your professors were polite. Detached. "Consider a gap year," one of them suggested, when your final project fell short. Another one smiled and told you that museum work was competitive — very competitive — and that maybe you should consider broadening your horizons. Maybe try the local heritage angle. Maybe lean into your background.

You knew what that meant.

Not giving up that easily, you toured gallery basements and museum backrooms during student field trips — rooms lined with crates and relics you weren’t allowed to touch. You watched a conservator handle a centuries-old scroll with hands steadier than yours would ever be. Every inch of the job looked holy from the outside, like something sacred you might be allowed to enter if you studied hard enough. But behind the velvet ropes and institutional polish, you started to see the cracks.

There were whispered complaints about underfunding. Stories of interns made to catalog entire collections alone. Older curators who treated provenance like personal territory. You volunteered once at a small regional museum just to get experience and ended up cleaning display glass and scrubbing exhibit floors. You told yourself it still counted.

And then there were the interviews, where they asked if you'd be comfortable lifting crates, running fundraisers, handling social media, and managing guest tours — all for minimum wage. Positions with beautiful titles and nothing behind them. It started to feel like the job was less about protecting history and more about convincing donors to keep the lights on. The past, you learned, only matters if it’s profitable.

You applied anyway — less out of hope, more like inertia. You tweaked your resume. You Googled synonyms for "passionate" until the word meant nothing. One of them called you in for an interview. You didn’t get it. Another place called you back for a position that paid less than the ferry ever did. You didn’t get it either.

And then Dad fell. Blew out his knee. Couldn’t walk the dock anymore.

You came back because you were broke and tired and humiliated and out of reasons not to. You packed in the middle of the night. Left behind a box of books on your old desk. Deleted the job alerts from your inbox. Told yourself it would just be temporary.

Now you’re here, back in the same boots, walking the same boards, answering the same questions from the same kind of tourists. You’re twenty-something with a degree that means nothing here. A diploma that doesn’t fit in your coat pocket when you’re loading cargo. A piece of paper that couldn't save you. A history of unpaid internships you never got. Professors who’ll forget you in a semester.

The archipelago hadn’t changed. Same bleached dock planks. Same rust-ringed ladders. Same old ferry with its bucking engine and stubborn throttle. And you were the same, too. Worse, maybe. Just older. More tired. A degree heavier. A dream deader.

You don’t know what comes next. There is no next, not really. Just water and wind and the hollow thump of your boots on damp wood. You’re stuck.

And worse — you’re starting to wonder if maybe this is all you’ll ever be.

Not a tragedy. Just another quiet failure folded back into the landscape. The girl who once swore she’d vanish past the horizon, only to wash up years later just like one more piece of flotsam the sea decided to keep.

Slap the, “That’s all folks!” title card on it. Fade to black.

(Except, well. As far as Raf’s concerned, the main titles had only just begun.)

Chapter Text

The wetsuit is half-zipped, clinging damp against your hips, something that doesn’t quite want to let go. You’re sitting on the flattest rock you can find near the lip of the cove, knees drawn up, elbows balanced on them, phone balanced precariously between your fingers. The mist is still stitched thick between the cliffs, and the morning sun hasn’t quite managed to cut through it yet. Cold air brushes against your bare arms, lifting the baby hairs, biting gently. Your knees are cold. Your mind is worse.

The group chat lights up again.

You scroll without reading at first, just watching the little cascade of names and icons — familiar and sharp-edged in ways you can't explain. It’s watching someone else’s memories keep moving while yours have stalled out in the same old frame. Same island. Same ferry. Same breath caught in your throat.

Yesterday’s conversation still occupies your mind, and you read through it once more.

"F4NT4STIC 4 REUNION ERA"

(Yesterday, 13.37)

[ tara ♡ ]: LADIES . YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT ISSSSSSS

[ simone (👹🤙) ]: girl i already took the days off. if yall flake i’m showing up to macie’s with a suitcase anyway

[ fleetwood mac ]: LMAOO i mean my living room is still 80% cardboard boxes but sure, suffer

[ simone (👹🤙) ]: if there’s karaoke i’m unplugging the speaker with my teeth

[ tara ♡ ]: also HELLO??? miss ferrymaster of heartbreak bay???

[ tara ♡ ]: we see you reading and not respondingggg

[ tara ♡ ]: THE WAY SHE’S STILL NOT ANSWERING

[ fleetwood mac ]: come online and disappear if you're alive. don't write anything if you’re still in love with your ex

[ fleetwood mac ]: you’re still in love with him????

[ fleetwood mac ]: damn it didnt work

[ simone (👹🤙) ]: she’s gonna come back in like six hours and act like nothing happened

[ simone (👹🤙) ]: literally text back. we're not mad you couldn't come. stop acting like this is a break-up !!!

(Yesterday, 23.35)

[ you ]: sorry. alive. extremely salty.

[ you ]: had to scrub barnacle residue off my soul before texting back.

[ fleetwood mac ]: SYBAU girl you disappeared like a victorian child into the mist 😭

[ simone (👹🤙) ]: anyway. macie's wine count is at 3. tara made a playlist. theo hasn’t cried yet

[ you ]: bold of you to assume he won’t

[ fleetwood mac ]: we placed bets. i give him until desert

[ tara ♡ ]: also you were right, he brought the seal mug he made in his pottery course. Unironically.

[ you ]: I feel the emotional blackmail all the way from over here …

[ fleetwood mac) ]: i had to leave the room. i was spiritually unprepared

[ you ]: move it like half an inch every time he looks away and pretend like nothing happened to freak him out that paranormal shit is going on. for my sake. please

[ tara ♡ ]: That's horrible. How do you come up with stuff like this? Do you want us to get kicked out if he makes a scene?

[ tara ♡ ]: I'll send you pictures 

[ simone (👹🤙) ]: we set a place for you vtw. it’s got a rock on it. and a fork.

[ you ]: that’s exactly how i would’ve wanted it <3

Your thumb pauses above a message. Just names. Names that once belonged to cramped dorm rooms, midnight indomie, and mutual breakdowns in libraries that smelled of old glue. The kind of friendships that were lifelines — loud and chaotic and necessary. And they still are. But you’re quieter now. Less sure what part you should play in their world.

Tara’s already published several scientific papers, both on her own and with her teacher — ResearchGate profile overflowing with content. Simone’s backpacked solo through South America and made it look unreal the entire time, every photo gold-dusted and cinematic and you’re sure she lives in an indie travel documentary. Macie just got picked up for a docuseries pilot. The one who shall not be named passed his bar exam and launched a website in his name that has to be surely coded by a tech god and branded by a Parisian design firm.

And you?

You still have this wetsuit from sophomore year. A freezer full of discount frozen meals. A collection of ferry schedules memorized down to the second.

You still work shifts that stretch into your bones. Still sleep in the room with the glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck to the ceiling at fourteen. Still get asked by tourists if you ever get tired of paradise. As if it’s not the same damn shoreline every day. They don’t know paradise comes with guilt-paid free health insurance and the inability to look into your parents' eyes without sweating through your shirt.

The museum front desk application sits untouched on your desktop. The deadline came and went while you were distracted by nothing in particular. There’s a half-written email to the local heritage center still sitting in your drafts. Volunteering was mentioned once, briefly, in passing, and never again.

You told your advisor you were taking a year. Time to figure things out. To recalibrate. To breathe.

But the year kept slipping. One month into the next. One season curling into the other. You started taking the same walk every morning. Then you stopped bothering with a route. Some days, even brushing your teeth was something that had to be earned.

You tried to make plans. Tried to start a spreadsheet. Color-coded your week and pretended it meant something. It lasted three days. Then the shame of seeing your own optimism undone by inertia sent you spiraling into the sea with your phone on do-not-disturb.

Sometimes you wake up already disappointed in yourself. Sometimes you manage to coast until lunch. The rest of the time, it sneaks up in strange places: folding laundry, stirring pasta, passing your own reflection and not recognizing anything urgent in your own eyes.

You keep saying you’ll get out. That it’s temporary. That you’re not stuck. You tell yourself that so often it’s started taking the shape of a prayer. Or a dare.

But every time you scroll, you feel it. That sharp, quiet pinch in your ribs. You're watching a starting line recede in the distance while your legs stay tangled in the sand.

A sharp twist of your mouth curls before you can stop it, too bitter to be a smile, too wry to be pain. You toss your phone a few inches further across the towel, willing the distance keep the elephant in the room away for a while longer.

And Theo. Of course he’s there.

Ha.

You sit still. A breath leaves your nose. The rock beneath you is cold, uneven, your palms flat against it. Wet grit clings to your fingers. You focus on that. The gulls loop overhead, shrieking into the pale air. Below, the tide moves against the rocks in shallow bursts, licking foam into the cracks and pulling it back again with a hiss. The world hasn't stopped, but it’s ignoring you on purpose.

No, you're ignoring it on purpose. 

A sleek head breaches the surface a few yards out, rising between two fingers of rock where kelp sways below in long green ribbons. A huff leaves him in a pfbbbth sound — short, damp, unimpressed — and he glides forward in a meandering path, stirring flecks of foam in his wake. The water around him flattens, then rolls behind his body in lazy spirals. Even the cove is used to making space for him.

You don’t smile. It almost happens, your face twitches because it wants to. But it doesn’t make it all the way. He’s watching you, waiting, head tilted just slightly.

"Someone’s a little restless today," you mutter.

He barks again. Short. With an imaginary question mark at the end of it. Surely it’s because he hasn’t received his usual cooing greetings and your, “Hi, hi, hi, my cutie pie,” — but your spirits are as gray as the weather. You can’t summon the cheerfulness.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m coming."

You slide into the water slower than usual, the cold biting at your ankles and climbing. Raf circles once, then again, but doesn’t dart off the way he normally does. He floats closer instead, trailing you as you wade out to the deeper part. When your feet finally lift from the sand, you turn toward him.

"I should’ve just gone," you say. "I don’t know why I’m so scared of a little get-together. Who cares if I’m not working yet? I should just say I’m taking a gap year… Like for uni graduates. Or say like I’m looking into Work and Travel but haven’t really liked any of the choices or something."

He tilts his head. How clueless and cute. Smooth brain. No ridges or lumps, no valleys or bumps; all ideas slide right off.

"You don’t even know what LinkedIn is," you mumble. “You’ll never have to. I’m so jealous, you don’t even know.”

Raf makes a bubbling snort.

You hate how bitter it makes you, sometimes. Hearing them talk about opportunities and networking and beautiful apartments with friends who leave them soup in the fridge. And you smile, as you’re supposed to. It’s good news. You’re proud. You are.

But it still seeps into the spaces between each of your vertebra, shapes you into a shrimp before the stateliness of ambition and purpose, making you feel small for not having more to offer, and worse for resenting even a flicker of it. There’s something sour in you that can’t be sweetened into a lemonade.

And you don’t want to be that person. You don’t. But you are. Quietly. Privately. The kind of ugly that you don't admit aloud unless you’re alone. Or talking to a seal.

"I hate that I get annoyed," you say under your breath. "Every time one of them says they’re doing great, I get that twist in my stomach like I swallowed a rock. Even when I’m proud of them. Even when I love them. What does that make me, huh?"

Raf offers no reply. Just a slow blink and inquisitive, a train’s choo-choo sounding breathing from his flaring nostrils.

"It makes me pathetic. That’s what."

Your throat tightens. You wipe your nose with the back of your glove and look up toward the cliffs, eyes still hot.

"There’s something you’re unlucky with. You know what?" you say, voice hoarse. "Of all the fish in the sea, you ended up with me. Should’ve gone for a marine biologist. Or a rich heiress with a yacht."

Raf surfaces again, blinking at you with deliberate slowness that mirrors a cat’s. Then, with a low chuff, he glides closer and presses the side of his head against your shoulder. You’re still floating when he wriggles around, flippers flopping clumsily, and half-latches onto your side, a wet, overgrown toddler trying to hug a pool noodle. His whiskers tickle through the neoprene.

You flip onto your back and float, arms out, hair fanning around your head with a seal glued to you. The sky above is pale and empty, the kind of soft gray that feels too big when you're already too full. You drift for a moment with your ears half-submerged, the world muffled except for the splash of Raf's flippers somewhere nearby. Clouds move. You don't.

"Watch. You’ll get discovered by some cute environmental documentary crew next and leave me behind. Get famous. Start an OnlyFans for your flippers."

Pause.

“OnlyFins,” you snort to yourself.

Raf lets out a long, wet blort, and disappears underwater with a cute bloop. 

You barely have time to curse before something nudges your ribs — hard. Then again. And then you’re yanked downward, the flipper hooked around your waist is basically an overly confident tugboat.

You surface with a gasp and a splash, hair in your eyes, sputtering.

Raf bobs a few feet away, grinning in the smug way only a seal can, going "AUUUUU," over and over again, following that up with a performative spin and a slap on the water.

"No more jokes, fine," you cough.

He dives again, leaving a trail of bubbles — pops up, and pauses, twisting back to look for you. His head bobs once. Twice. Then he disappears again, darting just beneath the surface, drawing a path for you to follow. A loop, a spiral, a flourish. He resurfaces ahead with a sharp snort and flicks water in your direction.

You blink water from your lashes. "Okay, okay, I get it. Impatient little show-off. Seashells aren’t going anywhere, let me go get my gear, damn."

He dunks under again, tail flippers wagging just enough to be smug about it.

And after your preparations, you follow.

Because if anything makes sense — if anything ever feels whole — it’s this. Salt in your mouth. Raf’s stupid flipper smacking water like an impatient bunny stomping his foot. A sky so wide you can’t get your arms around it.

You may not know how to move forward. But here, right now, you don’t need to.

Here, you can just be.

By the time the end of the day rolls around, the dive with Raf has dried to salt on your collar, and your limbs are already back in work-mode — anchored, alert, one hand on the wheel, the other near the comms, watching the weather shift with a sailor’s instinct and a whole life of knowing exactly when things stop making sense at sea.

The last round trip of the day is quiet in a different way today, though. No commuters or tourists, and no one but you on board.

A rare fluke of timing: your dad tied up with engine trouble on the backup skiff; the senior deckhand down for the count after slipping on ice during today's last unloading shift and sent home limping; the second deckhand called out with food poisoning from bad market shrimp; the engineer out for two weeks recovering from wrist surgery after trying to fix a rusted coupling by himself; the backup engineer already covering freight route duties on the north side; and the high schooler who usually mans the snack kiosk bailed last-minute for a school recital he 'forgot' to mention until this morning. Even the part-time lookout who mostly just watches Raf from the upper deck found a way to slip away.

You’d said yes before your dad even finished the ask instead of just cancelling the entirety of the day off — if a perfectly fine excuse for why you didn’t show up at the reunion made itself available to you, you would take it without question. It was serendipity, why let it go to waste?

And it was only one run, the weather wasn’t supposed to break yet. You knew the route. You could handle it.

Though, frankly, it felt good to be trusted with something this real and just empty your head for the rest of the day.

So it's just you, the hum of the engine, and a stretch of sea that's growing moodier by the minute.

You clock it before it starts showing.

The pitch is wrong.

Movement is expected, up-down, up-down, sometimes with more vigor and distance. No, it’s not that. It’s the angle, the timing, the tension underfoot that rolls in just a half-second too late. The swell pattern doesn’t match the forecast, the wind has teeth it wasn’t supposed to, and the gulls have gone silent over the water.

You glance up from the console, watching the sky fold itself into layers. That soft lilac haze from earlier has gone bruised at the edges. There’s a kind of waiting baked into the air now, the hush before the sky opens its mouth and howls.

You should’ve already turned back. You know the signs. You’ve trusted them before.

But the timing’s tight, and you know the shape of this route better than the lines in your palms. If you hold speed and cut between the outer channel markers, you might beat the worst of it. The system’s moving in fast — but not fast enough to make you fold early. Not if you don’t have to.

Besides, there’s only one round trip left back home. The radar isn’t red yet. The pressure’s dropping, but the water’s still got give in it. Dad made worse calls in tighter windows.

So you stay the course.

Pushing until everything starts pushing back.

The ferry bounces over a swell so hard you almost lose your grip on the wheel, rattling the life preservers along the wall with a thwack loud enough to echo inside your skull. Water sprays white across the decks, and something about the sound makes your bones ache. For a moment, you swear you can taste seaweed. Feel the drag of sea lines on your wrists, rough as rope burn.

But you catch yourself. Stabilize your footing, hands steady on the wheel, leaning into the rise and fall as they taught you in driving school all those years ago. The first day your father stood beside you and showed you how to balance the revs and the brakes on this machine, how to feel each part working together to drive, how it wasn't about forcing the craft, but guiding it with trust — it’s all muscle memory.

Trust the machine. Trust your gut. Trust your judgment.

So you do. And you guide. Until the storm arrives. Until the weather begins to roll in dark as tar — resentful black clouds, brindled with light, coiling together as if building, brewing, churning in unison above. Eerything then becomes curtained with rain and water, a shower splintering against the ferry roof. Sheets of water cut across the deck is a fog obscuring everything further than a foot away. Wind batters against the sides of the hull, shrieking louder and louder every minute, whistling shrill through every seam and corner and vent, and by now the ocean is actively trying to shove this boat off the face of the earth.

Everything turns sideways for one split second, and your heartbeat almost rips out of your throat, and when the ship steadies itself it takes several painful heartbeats of thinking I fucked up, I fucked up before you regain equilibrium and resume steering.

Everything starts to make sense. 

Raf had been strange from the moment you showed up this morning — clingy, louder than usual, almost pacing the cove. He kept making pup noises at the tide, splashed too close to shore while you suited up, and refused to go too far in the open water — his favorite thing was to drag you out further before. When you finally entered the water, he didn’t dart ahead the way he usually does. He hovered, brushed against you, circled you so tightly you had to push him off just to move forward.

You didn’t think much of it. You were too busy rereading texts, too busy spiraling over group photos and inside jokes and what-the-hell-was-he-thinking-by-showing-up.

Raf’s insistence was a complication you didn’t have room for when you’d been already feeling stifled enough. Even underwater, he kept doubling back to check on you, tapping your hip with his nose, making strange high-pitched whines that only made you more irritated.

When you got out, he followed you up the hill, paralleling you from the sea. Right up the ramp. Flopped against the loading zone and refused to budge, and not in the usual cute way. He clung to your boot when you tried to walk. Grabbed the hem of your jacket and yanked. Made noises so loud and pitiful that a couple tourists pulled out their phones to call wildlife protection. They thought he was hurt.

You shoved him back toward the cove and joked that he was a diva — a barnacle, a stage-five clinger.

He bit Elias when the poor old guy tried to help nudge him off the deck.

You didn’t look him in the eye when you closed the gate. Didn’t even wave, muttering something about spoiled animals and going inside. Because you had a job. Because you were on the schedule. Figuring out how to phrase it, how to make ferry work sound intentional, how to talk about staying without admitting you failed to leave. You practiced the words, hoping the right ones would dull the sting.

You didn’t notice how restless he went in the way he took the lead once the engine started.

You didn’t want to.

You'd practically ignored him the entire day for being annoying. To entertain the idea he was like that because he sensed the incoming weather... but you were too wrapped up in the reunion and your own spiraling thoughts to notice what he was trying to tell you. He knew something was coming — you’re sure of it now — and you hadn’t listened.

Too busy nursing your own useless grief.

And now you’re the only one out on the water when the storm decides to bite, regret and fear coiling around each other snakes in the pit of your stomach. The poor little man must be terrified wherever he's hiding. You hope he's tucked away safely somewhere sheltered and cozy, not roaming around trying to find you and ending up hurt or lost or trapped. If something horrible happened to him during this storm, it would be all your fault.

And now, as the radio crackles to life, a sharp burst splinters through the chaos, and all those words ash-scatter.

"—ayday—day—fishing boat—toward—Devil’s Teeth—repeat, Dev—no powe—can’t steer—"

It cuts out, sharp as a snapped line.

Your hand’s already moving. Mic in hand before the words even sink in. "Copy, how many aboard?"

Nothing. Just static, thin and needling, buzzing against your skin.

Your heart doesn’t lurch. It drops clean and heavy, straight into the pit of your stomach.

You flick your eyes to the GPS. The rocks are close — less than a kilometer to starboard. But you don’t need the chart to tell you that. You can already see them, those serrated black silhouettes clawing up from the water ribs punched through the ocean’s skin.

The Devil’s Teeth. The name alone carries some horror. They don’t forgive. Sharp enough to sheer a hull clean if you come at them wrong, but deceptive enough to trick even seasoned sailors into thinking they’re safe.

Above the water, they jut out like gap-toothed palisades — almost orderly, almost safe. From a distance, they seem to mark a clear path, multiple narrow channels that promise passage. But beneath the surface, the truth spreads wide and uneven, masked by the shifting tide, what looks navigable from above is a maze fanning out is a hidden reef below, disguised by the illusion of space, a trap waiting to splinter anything that trusts too easily.

Now, you watch from the waterboarded windshield as the ocean breaks against them sideways, spray exploding into the air in fractured bursts, mist swirling breath from something alive and restless. You’ve seen them before. Too close once, from a rescue boat.

You know the pattern they form, the way they beckon, offering what looks to be safe passage only to tear apart anything foolish enough to trust it. And you know the names of the people they’ve taken.

You flick the comms again, voice tighter now, a thread of instinct winding tight in your chest, tugging you toward the danger. "Any vessel transmitting, identify yourself.”

The wind shrieks through the cracks, high and thin, something caught between teeth. Water lashes the glass, streaking down in frantic rivulets as the ferry pitches harder, the deck groaning with the weight of the sea.

Your breath catches as you scan the horizon, nothing but the vertical outlines of the Devil’s Teeth. Black knives from the churn. For one terrible moment, everything slows. The sea draws back, coiling, holding its power just a beat too long. Waiting.

And then it breaks.

You move, but it’s not a choice. It’s reflex tangled with terror, the wheel wrenching in your hands as the ferry shudders beneath you. The shift is too sharp, the hull protesting with a low, gut-deep moan as it fights the turn. Your muscles burn, braced against the pull as the deck tilts hard, balance slipping for half a heartbeat. The bow dips — just a fraction — before you correct, knuckles losing color where they grip the wheel.

The spray blinds you for a moment, mist shearing across the windshield. But you blink, steady, locked on the path that doesn’t exist but has to be there. The space between those treacherous spires where, if you’re off by even a meter, the sea will swallow everything.

Raf knew. He tried to tell you. Fuck, you hope he’s not out here. He’s too much of a smart cookie for that, but still, you hope to god he’s safe.

The comms hiss softly, a broken thread of sound lost in the roar that fills the wheelhouse.

"—adrift—can’t—hold—taking on water—drifting t—engines are—"

Static. Again.

But you don’t need to hear it. The truth is already laid bare on the horizon.

Your eyes are locked on the shape just beyond, the battered fishing boat barely holding its own against the waves. A thing too small for this weather, its hull pitching wildly, the wind tossing it like it’s a toyboat in a child’s pool.

You flick the comms again, voice tight. "Vessel approaching Devil’s Teeth, do you copy? Repeat, do you copy? I need the status of anyone aboard!"

The answer is silence, thick and pressing.

But the sea answers instead.

Each wave shoves the boat closer to the rocks, their sharp edges barely visible between the peaks of the swells. You can make out three figures, barely, blurred shapes clinging to the railing, fighting against the chaos, one at the bow, steady but strained, another near the stern, slower, unsteady.

And the third—

A hollow space where someone should be.

"Shit," you breathe, throat tight.

You throttle down, the ferry groaning as the engine strains against the push of the current. The bow swings wide, cutting across the waves, too close but angled just right to shield the smaller boat from the worst of the wind. The wheel vibrates in your grip, the metal cold and damp, the pulse in your fingertips matching the beat of the sea.

The deck is bobbing harsher under your boots as you cut the engine to idle. A deep, unsettling quiet follows, the kind that means the sea is holding its breath.

You shove the throttle down, setting the engine to idle, the ferry rocking in protest as it fights against the churning sea. You can’t leave it drifting for long, but there’s no choice now.

The door to the deck slams open under your hand, wind tearing through as if the sea itself is trying to conquer its way inside. Salt spray slices across your face, cold and biting, nails and claws of an animal trying to get you. You barely register the sting. Your focus is on the deck below, where the equipment locker sits by the stairs. The rope should be there.

You swing down the short, steep steps, boots skidding slightly as the ferry shifts beneath you. The locker groans as you yank it open, cold metal biting into your fingertips. The rope’s there, coiled tight, damp and heavy.

You haul it out, the weight dragging at your arms as you push back up to the deck, boots pounding on slick metal, breath burning in your throat. The rope is rough and solid in your hands, the damp fibers biting into your palms as you step toward the railing, eyes locked on the men still fighting the sea.

"Line! Now!" Your voice barely carries, but the men on deck move. One of them, older, face lined with years of fighting the ocean, catches your eye, and you know you can trust him with this. He knows. He moves fast and nimble as you toss the line, and he hauls hard, pulling the boat closer inch by inch.

The younger man beside him fumbles, hands trembling as he secures the line, but his eyes are wide and fearful, darting between the shifting boats, the storm reflected in them. You can't have him slipping.

"Hold!" you shout, stepping to the edge.

The fishing boat rocks violently, a wild thing barely clinging to the world. But it holds. For now.

"Get them across!" You wave the first man forward, stretching your hand. His grip is iron, calloused and cold, and he hauls himself over with a grunt. The second follows, shaky but determined. His boots slip, but you grab his arm, steadying him as he clambers onto the ferry.

"One more!" The older man’s voice is barely audible over the wind. He points—

And you see him.

Near the stern. Slumped, half-draped over the edge. Too still.

"I’m going." Your words are lost in the chaos, but you’re already moving.

The wind slams into you the moment you step across, boots slipping on slick metal. You grab the railing, knuckles white, muscles straining as you pull yourself onto the listing deck. The world tilts beneath your feet, the boat rocking harder as if it knows it’s losing.

"Come on," you mutter, heart pounding.

He’s heavier than he looks. Deadweight. His clothes soaked through, dragging with seawater. Your fingers slip against the slick fabric as you grip his arm, muscles screaming as you try to pull him up.

"Help!" You barely need to say it. The older man is there, hands grabbing the man’s other arm. Together, you drag him inch by inch toward safety. The wind howls, the sea pushing harder, trying to reclaim him.

You’re so close.

"Almost there," you breathe, arms burning with the weight.

The man’s head lolls, his breath warm against your neck, but it’s faint. You brace, dragging harder, the metal beneath your boots slick and treacherous. Every muscle in your body screams for relief, but you hold on.

"You hang on, girl!" The older man shouts, his voice raw, but the younger one is there now too, reaching to grab the man’s collar and help.

"I’ve got him—" You don’t finish. The deck tilts—

The ferry shifts—

And the wave hits.

It’s not a push. It’s a blow. A force that tears you off balance, rips your grip from the man, and sends you weightless for a heartbeat before the world crashes back in. Or, you crash into the world. It resembles falling on solid ground from considerable height, except that it swallows you right up.

Cold.

Needles slip beneath your skin, knifing past layers of wool and overalls until nothing is left but frost-bright pain. Nothing blazes brighter, burns colder; the sea owns it all, every sensation, every heartbeat, every flicker of memory, snuffing them out one by one until all that remains is fear. Cold, bone-deep, blinding fear that has you kicking and flailing.

The water wants you. It pulls without pity, claws without remorse, wrenches without warning. Everything happens at once: pressure and chaos, liquid ice tearing at your lips and choking down your throat. The current twists around you, a tangle of unrelenting hands dragging you deeper even as you fight.

Down. And down. Until light bleeds away, dissolving like ink in water.

Something flashes just outside your blurring vision—

Then something else—

And another—

Infinitesimal silver glints cut through the dark. Shifting shadows dart between the pinpricks of pale light as shapes coalesce above. Thin silhouettes slice through the dark, through the gloom as you fall farther from safety. The pressure builds, crushing against your skull, a terrible humming filling your ears as if the entire ocean is singing an ode to your demise. Your chest begins convulsing fiercely, throat contracting in response as you begin thrashing around, lungs on fire and desperate for oxygen. Drowning in the sea, alone, terrified and hopeless, primal instincts demanding you do everything you can to stay alive, struggling uselessly to kick upwards towards the surface.

Wherever that is.

You reach upward desperately with a lone hand, vision having tunneled from lack of oxygen and panic combined. In that brief moment, something soft brushes the tips of your fingers. Like... fur...?

There's no way to know. Darkness has already consumed your consciousness, the struggle to survive giving away to oblivion and acceptance the moment your lungs breathe in water.

Singing.

Somebody has been singing to you.

Nearby. Simple, wordless, a melody winding slowly through the haze. Notes rise and fall around you — lavender smoke, crocheting your consciousness together bit by bit. You think maybe the song sounds familiar, that you could remember how it goes if only you could focus enough. As it is, your pulse stirs in time with the tune, waking limbs that were limp and numb as they thaw, muscles flexing as if remembering the shape of themselves.

Warmth comes first. Gentle heat kissing along the edges of your senses before bleeding inward in honeyed tendrils. Softness next: fur beneath your chin, blankets pulled tight across your chest.

The quiet of snowfall settles around you after that, muffling, easing, cushioning every inch of you as reality drifts into your awareness.

Everything returns in increments: salt crusted to your lips, drenched clothes wrapped around your frame, a layer of sodden clay. Beneath you: sand. Matted to the backs of your arms, your calves, the hollow of your throat. Behind your shuttered eyelids, sunlight filters softly. Red glow, distant orange. Sunglow, the color of melting copper. There is sky above you and beach below, but most importantly — there is breathing inside you again, each exhale shuddering as your pulse struggles toward normalcy, softly but surely.

Slowly, ever so gradually, you pry your eyelids open.

A canopy of branches, feather-soft green interspersed with golden brown, stretch overhead in a gentle dome. The bark glistens in the morning light, sticky still from the previous storm. Below the shelter, sand stretches outward in a sweep of endless shoreline, punctuated only by tufts of grass and gnarled driftwood that form a natural barricade from any casual passerby. The tide ebbs gently just past that barricade, washing fizzy seafoam high up the shoals before sliding back out lazily in a smooth curl, and further still, the horizon stretches — spun cotton candy, pink on blue, melted into haze at the edges, mingling seamlessly with the sky. And you're tucked carefully among the roots of one of those great trees, cradled and swaddled by the same fur-coated bundle your cheek is pillowed on, wrapped protectively in its embrace and held secure.

It takes your brain a full minute of groggily attempting to piece together these strange details before you realize there's a figure in the water, maybe twenty feet out, half-shrouded by the hush of early light.

Your brain coming back to you is akin to hitting the floor after falling for some time. You flinch. Sit up too fast.

A tangle of dark gray, thick hide spills from your shoulder, pooling in the crooks of your elbows. You shove it off with a gasp, limbs sluggish but panicked, fingers catching in the strange texture. It hits the ground with a muted thump, sounding heavy as wet rope but somehow dry and fluffy at the same time. The cold hits you immediately then, skin pebbling beneath the cling of soaked denim and wool and the frigid touch of salt wind. A full body shudder grips you, hard, teeth rattling in your skull, blood singing through your veins faster.

But not even that kind of cold is enough to distract you from the sight before you.

There’s a person waist-deep in the shallows, facing the sun.

Long hair drips like spun violet ink down a narrow back, plastered in curling sheets to sharp, bare shoulders. You've never seen natural hair that long in your life, it trails all the way down her body to fan out against the waves, streaming in shimmering bands over the crests of each swell, lit gold in the early sun. She tilts her head back to face the dawn fully, and you can only see the barest hint of her profile from the angle, the delicate slope of nose, the lushness of parted lips. There’s something arresting about the stillness of her, the way the sea seems to hush around her body. A statue the tide forgot to reclaim.

For a breathless, silent moment, she simply stands there, perfectly balanced, completely undisturbed, arms spread at her sides as if greeting the daybreak directly, skin glittering in the light, slick with seawater and—

A scar. A slash across one side of her shoulder, pale even against her skin tone, stretched tight as though dug deep enough to make bone.

Huh, you absentmindedly think. I think it's the same side as Raf's?

You break out of your trance with a loud gasp with the thought of your seal friend, which causes her to whirl around to face you, startled and wide-eyed.

Which brings another revelation. The person in question is a man, not a woman.

Skinny dipping, at that.

Your brain catches up to your eyes in a rush of static and shock. This is a Family Feud moment.

Name something a burglar would not wanna see when he breaks into a house.

The contestant yelling it with his whole chest. Naked grandma!

Naked HUH?

The buzzer in your head goes off.

Question: What’s the last thing a girl wants to see when waking up alone on an unfamiliar beach after falling unconscious?

Answer: Naked man.

You make a strangled noise and scramble back so fast the pelt half-slides off you, and at the same time, sharp pain lances through your right side, turning the motion into more of a hunch than a duck and roll. The sudden flare knocks what little breath is left out of your lungs, knocking sense back into you in the process.

Wait, what happened? Why does it hurt?

"Easy! Easy." The naked dude darts forward through the surf without missing a beat, water splashing everywhere with his hurried strides. The sound of his approaching footsteps makes you instinctively curl inward, arms hugging tight around your midsection while wincing. You don't look up, mostly out of embarrassment, and your thoughts immediately go brrrr when you become hyper aware of the fact you're definitely going to see things you won't be able to unsee. "You'll bleed again if you keep squirming like that! All my hardwork's gonna go to waste!"

You flail one arm between the two of you in a futile barrier while the other cradles where the injury is, still keeping your face down and staring down furiously at the ground to avoid looking anywhere higher than knee level. "Ah-ah-ah! Stop, stop!”

The sloshing of jogging doesn’t stop.

“Just — man, don't charge at me, I don't know you!"

He stops short as though you've thrown a rock at him, legs cutting off mid-stride with a chaotic splash. For one blessed second, all is still again — except for the water lapping at his shins and your pulse banging against your teeth.

Then, a noise.

A half-choked sound that might be a laugh. Or a cough. He doesn’t come any closer. Just stands there, suspended mid-motion, your words having pinned him in place. The water stills around his legs. The surf hesitates, then draws back with a hush. You're still locked on a particularly blurry patch of sand wet with the red of your congealed blood like your life depends on it, but you hear the the tiny inhale that catches weird in his throat, and the breeze picks up with a stutter again.

He erupts worse than a volcano all of a sudden. “You’re joking! What? You don’t know me? You don’t know me? After everything — you just made me go through, that’s—”

“—a very reasonable response!” you shoot back, your voice high in octave, blood rushing so rapidly to your head that you’re not even comprehending properly.

“Wow,” he says, all affronted drama and wounded pride in one breath. “It's not like I'm gonna eat you. Humans aren't even safe for consumption anyway!"

"Whoa-hoh—" you start, but he steamrolls over you before you can properly get a word in.

There’s the wet slap of a foot shifting in the surf, heralding that he’s gearing up for a rant. “Most people say thank you, you know. Or ‘hey, cool of you to make sure I didn’t die horribly’—"

"You're naked, random guy!" you shout hoarsely, throwing out a pathetic arm to shield you from any and all compromising views. This is the politest way you could have put it. The next best thing was to shout, 'Don't come near me with your dick out.' Which. Yeah.

An awkward pause follows the admission, thick enough to make you glance up before thinking twice about it. You get a flash of purple before you look away once more, clutching the strange gray fur to yourself as some sort of feeble shield.

"—der why," he mumbles, more to himself than anything else.

"Excuse me?"

He deadpans, stopping just short. “I said, so now you’re body-shaming the guy who literally rescued you from certain death?”

“I’m shame-shaming the fact that you’re approaching me with your — your — entire situation out in the open!”

"You have my pelt," he says, with almost childlike seriousness, expecting you to be able to read his mind from the tone of his statement alone.

"Uh, okay?" you respond articulately, weirded out by how the conversation was lacking common sense. "What does that have to do with your clothes?"

This time, the quiet stretches out like taffy.

“I want you on the other side of this damn island if you’re an exhibitionist, I swear to god don’t think for a second I’m not capable of—”

“I am not!” The way his voice changes pitches has to be studied. “Have you lost your mind in the ocean? I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing after everything I’ve done for you—”

You tune out his yapping. Yeah, this isn't getting anywhere. You're stranded on an island with a man you don't know, politely asking him to put his penis away, which, he won't get the hint for some reason and making it a 'I am who I am,' moment. Do you have to yell "Pervert!" at this guy for him to get a move on? Things couldn't get more absurd.

You rub your forehead wearily and groan in defeat. Is there something ironic about this exchange? Because you sure feel there should be something ironic here. There is probably supposed to be a joke somewhere here. The universe loves to deliver them in bundles.

An idea strikes you.

"Here, hold on," you say, shakily standing up while keeping your face diverted elsewhere. Your side does hurt, but the burn doesn't stretch as bad as when you felt it at first. "Just... turn around, please. No sudden moves."

"No sudden moves?" He answers with audible skepticism, the shuffling on the sand giving away his complying after a moment. The nervous waver in his words does manage to placate you somewhat. An exhibitionist wouldn't act this way. “I’m turning my back to you. How am I gonna know what you’re doing? For all I know, you could be ogling me with your squidlike human eyes, which, mind you, I wouldn’t blame you for—”

God, he loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?

Muting him out once more, you pick up the fur coat blanket thing from its dropped position with an audible, "Hup!" It's bulky in your grip, almost too thick to lift, yet remarkably light at the same time — trying to pick up water without getting wet.

“—I’ve been told I’m distractingly shapely in the flesh, but I didn’t exactly wake up today planning to be admired in the wild. And it’s not even my best side, you know? My shoulders are uneven. I think. They used to be non-existent—”

You're in no position to be in awe right now though, so you brush off all possible questions concerning the bizarre phenomenon until later. With as much caution as you can muster, you raise it up like a curtain until the only part you can see of the man is his luscious hair, and start walking up to him.

“—Not that I’m implying anything. You are not the ogling type. Then again, I once trusted a cormorant and it stole my entire lunch while I was mid-swim, so what do I know? I’m just out here, my back wide open, accosted, and trying very hard not to hold a grudge—”

Then, you drape the cloak of fluffiness onto his shoulders in the gentlest manner you could possibly afford, avoiding touching his skin. The pelt closes around his back, reminiscent of the wings of a giant bird closing protectively, encasing him from neck down to calves. A gasp slips out of him. So small you might've missed it if you hadn't been holding your breath, waiting for any negative reaction.

His own hands come up to pull the flaps snugly closed, then he slowly looks over one shoulder at you with such stunned wide-eyed silence you almost want to crack a smile at him, but promptly freeze in place as soon as you lock gazes.

Not only does he have the most enticing eyes you've ever seen with vertical heterochromia transitioning from blue to pink like a bi-color tourmaline, but he has such an attractive facial structure that is both masculine and delicate all in the same breath it punches all of your buttons in one go and oh god — it is so not helping this entire situation. This stranger is the epitome of beauty. Handsome face and lovely features and soft bone structures and everything you didn't expect from a random naked dude on a beach you couldn't recognize as a local.

And the hair. You'd seen it from afar already but... it reminds you of strands of ashen lavender blossoms dripping with morning dew, wet waviness disappearing underneath the collar of the pelt. You'd kill to have this Rapunzel hair. It's unfair how a man—

You snap back to attention with a hard blink as the initial shock wears off.

"There you go, now I won’t get flashed," you exhale with obvious relief, trying to will yourself to act casually so you don't seem weird to the stranger who probably saved your life.

His head tilts, just barely. Long strands of wet hair slip over his shoulder as he stares down at the pelt wrapped around him — your handiwork. The fur shifts slightly under his touch, and he goes very still, watching it settle again. You wonder what he’s waiting for.

“You gave it back to me,” he says.

The words come out soft, a little too careful for something so simple. He looks at you, expecting the world to shift around what he just said. He’s silently saying this should mean something to you, too — but it doesn’t. And that mismatch only deepens the quiet between you.

You blink.

He lifts the edge of the fur in his hands, shaking it, then looks at you like the answer should be obvious.

A pause. “Right,” you say slowly. “And… that’s important to note because?”

He shifts his weight, brows drawing together in a look that’s too serious for the situation. “You could’ve kept it.”

"Wet as my clothes are, you need it more than I do.”

He is surprisingly docile and red in the face now that he has something on for modesty and can’t quite look you in the eye. The tips of his fingers peeking from all the fur in his grip are fidgety.

You give a wry grimace before remembering the manners Dad always told you to have around new acquaintances. "Yeah, um — uh, thanks. For saving my life.”

You tell him your name, and bow your head a bit in acknowledgment. His shoulders pull in tight at the sudden gesture of goodwill — though you aren't quite sure why — but relax after a breath as he meets your stare squarely, searching for something. The intensity throws you off balance; those odd and piercing mismatched shades fixed solely on you make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end in both curious and fearful wonderment.

"And you are...?"

"Oh," he says, as if the question took him off guard, too. One hand comes up to brush through damp locks. Almost self-conscious, if the look on his face is anything to go by. There’s some sort of a faraway look in his eyes. "Raf — Rafayel."

"Were you the third guy on the fishing boat, Rafayel?" You recall that last crew member was slumped half overboard and passed out, prompting the rescue attempt that sent you both to sea in the first place. If Rafayel was wearing his pelt when you attempted to pull him up, the added weight could have been a factor in tipping both of you over. You find it's all a blur in your memory, though, and suppress a shudder. "Did you fall with me or—"

A shadow passes over his features as quickly as the changing tides. When he speaks, though, it's measured, almost cautious. "Yeah, I—" He pauses, shakes his head. Locks those impossibly colored eyes on you again, bright in the early morning light. "How are you feeling, though? Still hurts?"

"My side feels bruised like I was elbowed in the ribs but besides being chilled to the bone from falling into the ocean, I'm alright," you supply honestly. "I saw the blood on the sand, though. It feels unreal that I'm up and about right now. How can a scrape bleed that much?"

Rafayel's mouth goes flat as a line, looking you up and down with a concerning intensity deepening his tone. "You're lucky I was able to pull you back from the worst of it."

Shallow as it is, your wound isn't even dressed, but you decide not to engage in a conversation about the technicalities, patting him on the arm once in thanks and walking around him to get out of the forest line's shadow.

The beach stretching wide and strange before you is a postcard you don’t remember collecting. The sand is darker than you're used to, siltier, almost gray, and littered with glinting shells you don’t recognize, long and spiraled in augers, brittle as glass. Pale reeds jut from the shore at uneven angles, hissing faintly in the breeze, and the driftwood here is stripped bare, almost white, tangled in patterns that look too intentional for nature.

The water itself is clear, almost iridescent, casting strange reflections across the shallows, warped ripples that shimmer pink and green, an oil slick pretending to be pretty. And further out, offshore, strange half-drowned statue-shaped stones loom out of the surf.

You know this archipelago better than most, its coastlines and hidden inlets, the soft-bellied coves that tourists miss, having traced its map with your own hands, ferry lines, rock clusters, the way sandbanks shift after storms. Usually, it takes you seconds to place yourself. A curve in the shoreline, a type of dune grass, the slope of a treeline, something always gives it away.

But this place doesn’t register. No matter how long you stare, it refuses to sort itself into something known. The landscape’s been scrubbed clean of every tell you’re trained to read.

The most logical possibility is Seolhwine’s Hook — the island nearest to the Devil’s Teeth. That makes the most sense, right? You were heading back when the squall hit, and it’s the only one close enough for a current to drag you to overnight, and for Rafayel to be able to swim with you. But even then… even that doesn’t feel right. You’ve docked at Seolhwine’s before. This doesn’t match.

“I hate to say it but... Do you know where we are?” you ask finally, turning to him.

"My aunt's," he answers with a straight face.

You pause mid-shiver, your brain tripping over the simplicity of the statement.

You give him the flattest look you can afford, eyebrows lifting slowly. The pelt is clutched too high at his chest, his fingers wound tight in the fabric, you think he might be afraid of dropping it, though it doesn’t seem he notices he’s doing it. You can’t tell if he’s being deliberately evasive or if he genuinely thinks this is the helpful version of an answer.

"What?"

"Look, I’m all for jokes usually, but right now I need an actual place name — not just that your aunt lives here. I’m cold, I’m tired, and I just want to figure out how to get home—"

"It's my aunt's island."

You blink. Once. Twice. The explanation hangs in the air, weirdly self-satisfied. And it’s not satisfactory at all. Not even close.

What’s with the serene confidence of someone stating the color of the sky, as if “my aunt’s” is a perfectly normal answer to what island are we on? As if those two words magically orient you on a map?

You wait for more. Anything. The punchline. The name. Even a smirk. But there’s nothing.

Is he joking? Is this some elaborate bit? Or does he genuinely think that’s helpful?

The frustration in you sharpens. You’ve had to deal with flaky locals and clueless tourists and broken ferries before, but your patience is thinning by the second. You’re exhausted, still damp, still bleeding a little, and now stuck playing twenty questions with the world’s most uncooperative pretty boy.

"My aunt’s island."

He says it again, but there’s a slight shift in tone — firmer. He's correcting you. Thinks you’re the one being slow. And somehow, that makes it worse.

You stare at him. This time longer. He looks so damn earnest about it, truly believes he’s given you a helpful answer. It’s not smug. It’s not sarcastic. It’s not even deliberately vague to give away he’s fucking with you just to be a tease. It’s literal. Painfully, infuriatingly literal.

You’re trying to get directions from a very impatient child who only answers exactly what you ask and nothing else. Nuance is definitely a foreign language he never got taught.

But something tugs at the edge of your thoughts.

Because as stupid as it sounds — and it does sound stupid — it’s not impossible.

You look around again, really look this time, and you realize something’s been bothering you since you first stood up. It’s too pristine. Too quiet. There’s no old trailhead, no ferry dock, no graffiti-scuffed boulder where kids have carved hearts. No signs. No fishhooks, no cigarette butts. Just wind, tide, trees.

It clicks.

They’re marked on the maps you’ve seen, but only just. Annotated with little circles and names like SH-07 or East Ellinor. Places people like you aren’t supposed to go. Places the ferry routes steer around.

You’ve never been to one. You’ve never had a reason to. The people who owned them had their own transport, their own staff, their own little worlds with locked docks and private everything.

That’s why you didn’t recognize it. It’s not not on the map. It’s just never been part of your map.

You exhale, slow. Let the realization settle.

"So you're saying this is one of the private islands."

Rafayel’s brows lift in vague approval and he nods fervently. "Yes! That. Exactly. It's very private."

You rub your forehead, as if that’ll push the absurdity back into place.

Of course it is. Of course you almost drowned and then washed up on a privately owned island like some shipwrecked stray. Of course the first person you meet is a socially weird, mostly-naked man claiming ownership through familial inheritance like it’s a perfectly casual thing to drop.

You stare up at the sky for a moment, trying to piece together how the hell you even got here.

None of the private islands are anywhere near the Devil’s Teeth — most of them are tucked deep in the inner chain, clustered where the water’s calmer and the currents don’t rip you sideways. But this? This place isn’t close to any of that. You were unconscious, but you remember the storm. You remember going overboard, water in your lungs, panic in your throat, and then nothing. Blackout.

But you weren’t alone.

Rafayel said he pulled you out. Which means he swam you here.

You glance at him again, still draped in that ridiculous pelt and giving you weird pointed looks conveying that he wants to tell you something so bad. He doesn’t look winded enough for someone who hauled another body through open water during a storm. But if he did — if that’s how you got here — then he swam farther than you can make sense of. And maybe lost his clothes in the process. Somehow the latter makes more sense compared to the hypothetical that precedes it.

You were near open sea. This doesn’t add up. Even if he unexpectedly took you somewhere else than Seolhwine's, it just happening to be his aunt's private island is no coincidence.

You look back at him, more confused than before.

"Come," he says softly, extending his hand toward you with palm upward. "I'll take you to her. We'll help you get home. I promise."

A dozen different responses crowd your tongue as you stare down at his offered hand. All the questions rattling between your ears, each booking it for your lips faster than the next. None make it far. Suspicion should be there, but your instincts are unresponsive. They don’t find anything worth questioning about the situation despite the red flags.

Sure, maybe a weird randomly naked guy saved your life, brought you to a secret beach that doesn’t look on any travel maps, and claims to have ties with some rich aunt that owns the whole damn thing...

But he isn't dangerous.

You know that fact unequivocally. Call it a hunch, maybe? Gut intuition. It makes no sense considering your rational side has zero interest in jumping through hoops to trust the random person that literally dragged you out of the ocean to the least convenient place he ever could — but then again, life tends to toss the strangest circumstances and situations your way whenever you least expect it.

What matters most is getting back home, your parents have to be dying of worry — a search party must be out there wasting resources. Having someone who seems oddly comfortable on the island lead you directly to shelter would certainly speed things along.

"Hey," he gently adds when you're quiet for too long, breaking the train of thought running rampant inside your mind. The softness in his tone brings your attention back to him entirely, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He offers his hand a little higher, which draws your focus back on it with curious clarity. How smooth it lookd, even from this distance, perfect nails without a single scratch or imperfection, fingers delicate, elegant bones visible under the pale skin. "I just want to help. You're safe with me. I won’t hurt you."

You stare at his hand, then at his face, then back again. The tone is soft, the words gentle, but something about it scratches at the back of your brain. The kind of voice usually reserved for nervous animals crouched under porches. Any second now, he might start whistling and offer a treat.

Though the weird phrasing shouldn't work its weird magic on you, it does. Maybe because it sounds so nostalgic and familiar in a way that it invokes a sense of safety in you? Or maybe because you're tired, soaked to the bone, bleeding lightly still, and sore all over and this guy seems too nice to be anything less than honest?

Perhaps both. Probably both. You really have no business trusting strangers who wear big pelt blankets instead of actual clothing and give basic information away akin to some kind of social anxiety sufferer with performance issues, yet here you are, contemplating on the idea of taking his hand.

What the hell, you think eventually. Sure. What alternative is there? If the worst comes to pass, you intend to make him have one less limb to his name — it would be his own fault for walking around like a Resident Evil nude mod. How did that one text post go? Boy put that boaner away lest a sloppy little critter grabs hold of it.

But you’re not that sure what kind of answer you expected when you ask him where you’re headed, but he doesn’t so much point as let his hand drift outward, loose and imprecise — more communion than instruction, as though the land might whisper the route if you stand still long enough. He plants himself in the emptiness with the ease of someone who’s never needed a map, naming vague landmarks with the casual grace of someone expecting the road to rise just because he’s ready to walk it.

As someone who has mastered the art of minding your own business, you don’t call out this behavior. As long as he gets you someplace you can call help from, Rafayel is free to be a weirdo.

But you do press him for information.

“She has lavender near the steps, and her door is the color of the sea,” he offers, like that narrows it down. “The path smells of sage sometimes, if the wind’s right. And there’s a stone shaped like a sleeping dog near the turn — you have to squint a little. The house groans when it’s too warm. There’s a wind chime that only rings when someone she doesn’t like shows up. And the garden gate bites if you don’t know how to open it.”

Not helpful. But then he refuses to add anything else more along the lines of fucking common sense and normal people direction-giving. What does he expect, the scent alone pulling you in the right direction if you just walk long enough?

And maybe he's right. Maybe you're the weird one for expecting something as formal as an address out here. If this really is a private island, there might only be one house. Maybe 'lavender and a blue door' is all anyone needs. Maybe people out here remember things by the curve of the land and the way the air smells after rain.

It isn’t a real plan. It’s the shape of a promise, just strange enough to follow, just vivid enough to believe in for a little while. The way he speaks about it, there’s no room for doubt, and you’ve learned to believe in the word of a local in all your years of living around the archipelago.

So you follow.

The pelt shifts when he moves, catching bits of drift and sand, trailing slightly as he walks beside you through the underbrush. He doesn’t shiver, unlike you. And that makes sense, considering how warm and cozy you were when that thing was your blanket when you first woke up.

The morning light hasn’t yet burned the fog from the trees, and the forest path ahead is dappled in grey. Your boots sink into the softened moss with a squelch. His bare feet barely make a sound, but your skin does hear something because of your wet socks.

You glance sideways at him. No wince, no flinch, not even when he steps straight on a gnarled root that would have you cursing in three languages.

“Seriously?” you mutter. “You don’t even feel that?”

“I’ve walked stranger paths,” he says. Great.

You stop walking with a groan. The wind catches your soaked clothes, cutting straight through to the bone. Your arms are already shaking.

“Okay. New plan.”

He watches as you crouch in front of him, back turned.

You look over your shoulder with an encouraging gesture for him, “Climb on.”

He tilts his head. “Huh?”

“Piggyback. You're barefoot, this path is hell, and I'm freezing. Carrying weight warms you up.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You're not that heavy, and I’ve hauled crates bigger than you off ferries for years. So. Just. Climb on.”

He makes a strangled noise. “I didn’t learn bipedalism just to be carried like a pup by you!”

Such drama. There really is no time for this and you’re not in the mood for negotiations.

You grab one of his wrists and tug it over your shoulder. His entire hand twitches in response. “If it makes you feel better, this is entirely me being selfish. I want to get warm.”

He hesitates, and it’s not pride, he keeps glancing at your side, where the torn side of your turtleneck still clings damp and darkened. His hands hover like he might stop you.

“You’re not healed,” he mutters. “Not properly.”

You hitch his arm higher on your shoulder. “It’s fine.”

“That wound’s still raw.”

“So are my fingers. Cold does that.”

He makes a frustrated noise.

“Listen, enough with courtesy stuff, okay? I don’t care, I’m freezing,” you cut in. “And you don’t have shoes. We’re both going to be miserable either way, so pick your poison.”

He sighs, dragging it out. Eventually, he caves, muttering something under his breath that could be an insult but could also be a compliment. He hoists himself up, arms settling uncertainly around your shoulders, pelt-covered legs bracketing your hips, and you make sure he won’t slip away from your grip because of the material. You’re trekking along the forest in no time, feeling pleasantly distracted from the cold.

“This is deeply undignified,” he mutters.

“And being inexplicably naked in front of a stranger isn’t? Where and why did you lose your clothes anyway? You still haven’t told.”

There’s no response, except from a huff he lets out from his nose, which fondly reminds you of Raf. It must be a tale particularly embarrassing for him to tell, and he did have the fur to make it up for, so you once again don’t pry. Master of minding your own business.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Get comfortable.”

He doesn’t. He sits stiffly at first, as though unsure how much weight he’s allowed to give you. Then he starts shifting. Sighing. Squirming. Grumbling under his breath about the jostling, the pace, the way your shoulder bone is probably bruising his ribs.

"You walk uneven," he complains after the first bend. "See, it hurts after all, yeah? Put me down."

"It's a forest," you grit out. "The ground walks uneven."

"I wish you would listen for once."

"That's a wasted wish on a star. You've known me for like what, fifteen minutes?"

He exhales through his nose again, slow and beleaguered. No witty answer to that one, it seems.

The longer you walk, the more he settles. His complaining slows into occasional muttering, then thoughtful silence. The forest begins to close in around you. Damp leaves brush your arms. The world smells of pine sap, wet bark, and something almost metallic beneath the rot. The silence here is dense, broken only by the soft rhythm of your boots against the ground and the occasional rustle of something unseen in the undergrowth.

Then his voice, soft and close beside your ear: “Do you name the trails you take at sea? Or are they just known to you?”

“What?”

“The water routes. The ones you steer the ferry along. Do they have names?”

He’s talking about sea lanes. You’re about to question how he doesn’t know these things, considering he’s a fisherman, but remember he might not be one. His aunt owns an island. This is a rich kid who probably wanted to fish and got the locals involved in his request.

“They’ve got designations. Letters, numbers. Eights and alphas and things like that. But most of us just… call ’em what we call ’em.”

“Like?”

You think a moment, breath fogging in the damp air. “There’s Shiverstretch. That’s the fast cold current between Dolos and Ternhook. Everyone calls it that ’cause it’s a backslap to the face, especially on the morning runs. And there’s Dead Hour Channel — no wind, no sound, just this long, empty drift. Makes you paranoid that something’s watching. I don’t like that one.”

You feel him shift slightly on your back, listening.

“There’s Longshout,” you add. “Named after a guy who tried to boat through in a storm and ended up yelling for help the whole way ‘til he ran aground on Fallow Reef.”

Rafayel snorts quietly. “That one sounds personal.”

“It is. He still works the east docks. Won’t shut up about it.”

“How do you find your way around, then? I always wondered. Do you read the water like seals do?”

“Reading the water is one way to put it, I guess. They’re charted. We use navigation systems. Landmarks. Depth markers.”

A pause. The trees rumble, disturbed by a sudden gust of wind, brittle leaves dropping pebbles onto the path in front of you. Rafayel shifts awkwardly behind you, almost toppling off to the left before righting himself with a steadying grip.

"Question," you say. "What indicators do you use? Chip on a tree or something?"

He whispers eventually, cheek lightly pressed against yours. You feel his eyes on you. "Smells."

You blink, twisting around to glance at him. He seems surprisingly somber all of a sudden. "Uhhh...."

"Just focus on the road, we're almost there. You'll see."

The path winds past the last of the scrub grass, and then it opens.

The trees fall away in a hush of damp leaves and saltlight, and there, cradled in the middle of the forest-clad small valley, is a sprawling, mansion of a house that doesn’t quite belongs to any century in particular. Can't be called old or modern. The word you’re looking for is neo-classical architecture made to be a beach house. Pale limestone, veined and sun-bitten, gleams beneath the overcast sky. Its walls are streaked with wind-carried brine, but the stone holds strong, weathered soft rather than worn down. And there is the giveaway Rafayel was talking about: blue door.

Lavender spills along the pathway in loose drifts, unruly and fragrant, tangling with sea-thrift and clover like the garden grew itself wild. Carved wooden shutters hang half-closed against the morning chill, and a curved archway frames the entry looks the part of a half-remembered temple. There’s something mythic about it, a story you were almost told once. A place that holds onto memory whether you want it to or not.

And then there’s the scent, ocean first, bright and sharp, but something warmer curling beneath it. Resin, maybe. Incense burned into the beams. Citrus oil in the wood grain.

You adjust your grip beneath Rafayel’s knees as you approach the door. Acting as a barrier between your bodies, his pelt is still slung down your back , trailing behind like a second spine, damp at the edges. He hasn’t said much since the last hill. Just rested his chin between your shoulder blades and hummed, quiet as tidewash.

You reach the first step. Hesitate. The house isn’t grand in the usual way, no columns, no gates, but there’s a heaviness to it. Not unfriendly, but expectant.

You knock.

Silence falls. The melted caramel of sunlight scatters through the dark glass in the windows. Rafayel shifts on your back, going rigid so suddenly it almost jolts you. His breath stills sharply against your spine, and in that single suspended moment, you can feel the piano wire of tension strung through his bones.

You don’t get the chance to ask why. Wood cracks loudly within the doorframe, and there's a pop, a groan, and then a soft, sweet creak as the lock disengages, allowing the door to slowly swing inward with an audible squeak.

The scent hits first, warm and strange. Spiced velvet, a whisper of cloves, dried orange peel, and something more ancient baked into the lintel wood. Then the figure behind it, unexpected.

For an “aunt,” she looks barely older than him. Mid-thirties, maybe, though it’s hard to tell. Her features are sharp, dignified, and her presence is a light cloud, wrapped in layered satin and lace shawl, white and lilac, all shot through with shimmer where the light catches on glinting jewelry. Her hair is swept back, rich violet and pinned with silver shells, and her eyes—

Dusty purple brightening with shock.

“Rafayel?” she breathes, her grip whitening on the frame. Her gaze darts down, takes in the sealskin clinging to your back, the way his taut arms still drape over your shoulders like iron bars. “Gods, is it really you? Look, look at you! Oh... oh!"

Rafayel slides off you, and she practically throws herself out the door as soon as the initial shock wears off, taking two long steps across the threshold until she's directly in front of you, cupping his cheeks with hands that only tremble the smallest bit. He meets her halfway, tilting his forehead to rest against hers as his own hands come up to gently caress her elbows, cradling them lightly. His motions are hesitant at first — touching with clear clumsiness, as if handling glass. But the moment she exhales an astonished little laugh, something changes, he pulls her close, tightening his grasp not to let her blow away on the wind. The woman leans fully against him then, looping her arms around his neck with a relieved shudder that shakes both their frames.

And you're there, a comical stick figure at the background of a well-drawn panel of a manga with a big arrow pointing at you.

You hope they won't hunt you for sport. Private island. Two eerily good looking family members. Girl who got deliberately delivered there when a closer island was the most blatant option. This has the potential to be a horror movie premise.

But no. Nope. Too late. She glances past his shoulder as soon as her embrace is complete and the silent reunion done with, locking eyes with you, and your soul flees your body, trying to squeeze itself back through your pores like some furtive worm to avoid the full brunt of her curious scrutiny.

She raises one perfectly shaped brow, but before either of you can exchange any words or reactions, Rafayel says something.

You say something, because it's in a language you don't know, one that doesn't bother to make itself easy, sharp at the edges, rounded at the core. It rolls out of his mouth, mist over moorland — thick, tangled, hard to follow. The stone-teeth syllables grind against each other, but every so often, they break open into something strange and sweet, the howl of a reed pipe carried on sea wind.

It just plays into the horror movie vibe because why would he blatantly switch language to probably speak about you, judging from the glance thrown your way, as if you aren't there? Probably conspiring how to eat you! You do feel like tenderized meat.

The woman hums again, a thoughtful note this time, and the conversation carries on in murmured exchanges of tone and gesture — softness here, a flicker of frustration there. And yet you can pinpoint the exact moment everything changes. Rafayel says something. But she draws back, cups his cheeks in her hands, and stares at him hard, searching. Whatever she finds isn’t enough, because she shakes her head once, firm, decisive. He asks again. Another shake, stronger this time, more insistent. Her fingers flex tight against his skin as if she means to hold him there, but he speaks again, something softer, fainter, and her hand relaxes, trembling on the edge of defeat. A faint frown crosses her face, a small downward curl that somehow turns the lines at the corner of her lips into parenthesis, closing off the shape of whatever she might have said next.

"Hey, uh," you finally intervene when their staring contest becomes too intense. They both startle, seeming to remember your existence at once. You smile nervously, holding one raised palm up in defense and nonthreatening greeting. "Sorry to interrupt, ma'am, but could I, um..." Your free hand gestures vaguely to indicate the general situation you find yourself in. "Use your phone? I don't mean to intrude or anything, I just. I got thrown over board during the storm, I don't even know if my ferry was capsized and I really, really need to get back—"

Rafayel says something else under his breath, hasty now, almost tripping over his words.

Her brows furrow in mild concern at his rambling. "Oh dear, I apologize, yes! Do forgive me for being impolite, I forgot myself for a moment there."

You nod politely in acknowledgment of her apology, lowering your arm hesitantly. "Not a problem, it happens."

"It's been so long since our house had guests," she admits candidly, placing an elegant hand over her heart in embarrassment. "Come, come in, please, you need a hot shower and change of clothes." She takes you by the arm and guides you inside. "You're drenched! Look at those goosebumps. Oh, you poor thing."

She leads you into a grand hallway filled with golden hour sunlight spilling through windows framed by sheer white curtains billowing lazily in the breeze, and it is not unlike stepping straight into the interior design section of an expensive department store. You could smell the money dripping off every nook, cranny, wall, and corner. If your wet socks were making muddy imprints on the flooring you knew you'd pass out from mortification on the spot. The floors here look pristine and polished enough for you to see your reflection clearly on its surface. Even the vase tucked neatly into the center of a glossy dark wood console table is worth more than your boat. Everything about this mansion is clean and orderly, it must be heaven on earth for a neat freak like your dad.

"He needs clothes the most, I think," you try to joke, letting her steer you through the main hall with wide curious steps and an awestruck stare. Rafayel, wherever he is behind you two, remains silent. You think he might have disappeared somewhere.

Her grip tightens around your arm like a mother hen dragging her chick into a coop to shelter from winter, her nails lightly digging into the sleeves of your sweater with a pleasant firmness that feels strangely grounding. "Don't worry about him, you focus on getting warmed up now."

"Thanks, ummm..." you begin, hoping it's polite to ask for her name while inside her home. But before you could continue, she turns to regard you with a serene smile — so gentle and graceful she could've been sculpted from marble if it weren't for her very lively personality. She smells nice, too. Floral. Very floral. The same kind of perfume bottle your aunt kept on display near her sewing machine that you stole a few sniffs of when Grandma wasn't looking.

Her attention is summer afternoon sunbeams on your chilled skin. "You can call me Talia.”

Chapter Text

“Hello.”

Just hearing Mom say that with a voice so thin and tired that some of it doesn’t get picked up through the phone is enough for your heart to shrink in place like a child who’s aware of an incoming scolding would.

“Mom,” you gasp. You’re standing barefoot on the cool white tiles, their chill bleeding up through your soles. The clothes clinging to your body are too big, borrowed, the soft collar of someone else’s sweater sagging against your neck. “Mom, it’s me — it’s me.”

There’s a sound — a breath being sucked in too fast, and then her voice rises, making the speaker pop and crackle against your ear: “Oh my God. Oh my God!—”

“Is the ferry okay?” The phone cord coils loosely at your side, warm from the sun that slants through an arched window and makes the gold fixtures on the table gleam. You keep winding it around your fingers without thinking, make it tight enough to cut blood circulation, letting it bite into your skin before unwinding it again. Then again.

Please tell me it didn’t sink, please.

The plastic sheath creaks faintly with each nervous pull, a rhythmic distraction just steady enough to stop you from breaking open. “The ferry — is the ferry alright? Did it — did it make it back?! The fishermen — I thought they were — I tried to get them before the they hit the rocks but — fuck, I — I don’t know if it made it—”

“Who is that?” another voice shouts suddenly from the receiver, rapidly accelarating in proximity and booming with rage and fear. You can hear the sound of Mom’s phone being snatched. “Who is that?! Give me the — Is that you?!”

“Dad,” you choke, fighting the tremble in your bottom lip.

This is his breadwinner. Your entire family’s livelihood. The fact that a possible sinking after you were thrown overboard hadn’t occured to you until you were underneath a warm shower and letting your thoughts flow with the water is worse to you than being the reason why the ferry was lost. You truly don’t know what to say.

“Dad I — I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to — I thought I could get them back in, the boat was listing, the rocks were farther so I thought it would be fine, and then the wave — I don’t even know if the ferry’s — oh god, the ferry—”

Mom interrupts your babbling. “Shhhh, shhh, the ferry’s fine, baby, it’s fine, those people drove it back here—”

Your elbows come down on the luxurious table and you sink down on your forearms from relief, rubbing your face with your free hand. The position is a bit awkward because you have to hold the receiver of this old rotary phone to your ear, but you couldn’t care less.

“Where the hell are you?” Dad spits.

Mom cuts in again, her voice warbling with restrained sobs: “We thought you were gone. The coast guard said the water was too cold — and after that kind of storm your chances weren’t… that it was too late to keep searching. But we didn’t stop. We didn’t stop, do you hear me?”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. They were drifting and I thought if I could just — if I could just get there in time. I didn’t — I thought I could help. I really thought I could do something right for once and instead I nearly—”

Ruined everything.

You can hear the ocean just beyond the glass in the silence that follows.

“Where are you now? Where have you washed up? I don’t recognize the number, who are you with?” he says, more insistent now. “We looked everywhere in the surrounding islands.”

“Someone pulled me out — he said this is his aunt’s place — Orphias she said, I think? The owner’s name is Talia.”

Your father swears under his breath, sharp and furious. “Private island section? That’s miles off route and from the Teeth! How—”

“I don’t know! I can’t make sense of it as well, but I didn’t pry. Beggars can’t be choosers.” When you receive no answer, you bite down on your lower lip. “Dad?”

“You stay put, we’re on our way now.” You nod even though they can’t see it. The hand not holding the phone presses to your chest, as if that might calm the erratic thump beneath. “Stay on your toes, alright? I don’t like this. The storm couldn’t have taken you that far — who did you say it was that saved you?”

“This guy — Rafayel. The nephew. He brought me here from what he told me.” You hear an intake of a big breath. “Don’t ask. I don’t know. He was—”

You stop yourself. If you talk anything related to Rafayel, Dad would freak the fuck out. A naked man on the beach so far away from the ground zero of your fall who you had to piggyback to his aunt’s house? Nothing you could say would be able to salvage any part of that sentence.

“Okay,” he says. An engine starts in the background. “Okay. How are you doing? Are you hurt at all?”

“Took you long enough to ask,” Mom nags in the distance.

“I’m okay now, I think — I’m dry, she gave me clothes — I had a hot shower…”

Dad starts ranting to himself under his breath in the unique way that he does that’s reminiscent of a sped-up tape put in another room you hear the muffled echo of. “Jesus Christ. You scared the life out of us. Hours. Gone for hours. You don’t just venture out during a fucking storm and— ”

And of course it’s Mom who stops it. “—Don’t, not now. We’ll talk about it when we see her.”

That’s how you know you’re in for a lecture. You deserve it, though. The ferry’s safety more than makes up for it.

“Are the fishermen okay?” you say, a bit ashamed to remember to ask about them this late into the conversation, but it’s fine you think — shame is a familiar companion nowadays, what’s more for the late night conversations you have with her?

“Yeah, they made it. One of ’em got a concussion, another one fractured his arm. That storm shook the poor fellas like a rattle.”

And the third one brought you here.

Yeah, that checks out.

It’s the kind of confirmation you needed. And your family, of course. An identity verification of some sorts and a guarantee that nothing bad would happen to you. Though the second part of that sentence, you feel guilty just thinking about after getting taken care of by a host like Talia who took in a stranger into her home. A wet dog, in a sense.

You move to lean against the wall next to the telephone, tilting your head back to rest on the smooth, cool surface of the wallpaper. There is a slight ache in your shoulders from the strain of the stress (and also the almost-drowning, but mostly the stress of losing the ferry), but the exhaustion is a familiar one, the kind that comes from a day spent pushing against the world, one that you welcome feeling, now that you know you haven't fucked up that colossaly. Relief, in other words, is the best drug.

"Can you get this Talia on the phone?" Mom asks. "We need the island code to find the coordinates, baby."

"You guys don't know about any Orphias?"

Dad grumbles. "You expect someone to know every single grocery store in the city?"

"Well. If it's a luxury store and the person in question is a store connoisseur—"

"Okay, alright, smartass. If you can talk back like that, I guess you're fine."

"Talia, please?" Mom reminds you. She sounds lighter, though, after hearing the brief bickering.

“I sure hope you haven’t gotten yourself into some weird island cult.”

As if to answer her question, light footsteps fade into your awareness from the outside and you turn your head to the direction of the source just as a gentle knock on the door resonates. It’s Talia hovering in the entryway, the light from the spacious hall casting a soft glow outlines her figure in the warm, golden haze of the afternoon, somehow made brighter by the smile on her face.

"Just wanted to say I prepared some snacks for you, in case you were hungry," she offers, keeping her voice down in a whisper to not interrupt yor call. She seems to hesitate, then adds, "And also... if you're not, that's all right too. You can take your time. There's no rush."

You can't help the smile that crosses your face, grateful and touched. "Thanks. Actually, could you..." You gesture with the old corded phone, once again mentally shrunk into a kid half her height when you say, "My parents would like to speak to you. Just to give their thanks. And directions. To fetch me. If that's alright?"

"Of course," she replies, fully entering the room and stepping forward to take the receiver from your hand. "I understand, they must've been worried sick. Don't worry, I'll handle it. You go to the kitchen, it's just on the left from the hall. Help yourself to whatever you'd like. I'll be right there in a moment."

Kindness is inherently woven into her attitude in the same way the scent of the sea lingers in the fabric of the sweater she's given you, reinforcing the decision of not telling the details of your arrival to your parents. You’d hate to put a woman like this in a bad position.

You murmur a quiet, "Okay, thank you," and leave the room, the hushed conversation of numbers and coordinates becoming background noise as you make your way to the kitchen from where the inviting aromas of baked treats are emitting from. It’s the flute to your snake.

The door to the kitchen creaks open under your hand, hinges sighing into a stillness too perfect to last, and immediately you’re greeted by a chaotic shock of what you first think is a purple Cookie Monster perched on the marble countertop. You stand frozen for a while, blinking rapidly to understand just what you're looking at. 

Rafayel is halfway to toppling a tall rectangular tin off the highest shelf, arm stretched, the draped sleeve of the damn curtain he has on brushing precariously close to the burner on the gas stove, which is clicking softly beside him, the faint heat of a forgotten flame warming the copper kettle that rattles lazily against its cradle. He’s framed by the cabinetry that gleams beneath glass-paned arches — crystal knobs and shell-tiled backsplash gleaming in the slanted afternoon light, inside them are shelves forming a sort of shrine: delicate teacups, polished silver tins, bundles of dried herbs bound with gold thread, and much more you can’t quite identify from your angle.

One leg is tucked under him like a smug little prince, the other dangles, toes tapping against the edge of an opened carved oak cabinet, and the sound of clinking make you notice the anklets he has on. It's feline, the way he's trying to balance. Either get on the counter with both knees, or don't. What is he thinking?

"You're going to break the counter or the cabinet standing like that," you say flatly.

He turns his head half-way to give you a view of his profile, dusky violet hair tucked behind one ear, a long, dangly purple gem earring catching the light, swaying with the movement. It's weirdly painting-esque, especially with the ensemble he has on, which fits his overall vibe, and you really shouldn't be surprised it does. Because of course the butt-naked meet-cute conversational-hazard man dresses like a Studio Ghibli fever dream styled by a Milan Fashion Week intern on mushrooms. 

“Are you calling me fat?” He frowns with a displeased pinch between his eyebrows. “I’ll have you know I’m streamlined for agility.”

Your gaze drops to the sash tied too elaborately around his waist holding the curtain in place, and the peach-colored gems and tassels at the ends of them hanging dangerously close to the open flame, and point to it with a hand. "Are you fireproof as well?"

He scoots away from the stovetop, but doesn’t give up on his destination — one particular tin. “Ah.”

"Get down before you light yourself on fire."

He sighs and pouts at that, but slides off the counter nevertheless, with a surprising grace that doesn’t quite match the amount of fabric he has on, his bare feet slapping softly against the cool marble tiles inlaid with spiraling shell patterns.

"Fine. But only because you asked nicely," he says, brushing invisible crumbs from his curtain. "You didn’t. But I imagined you might’ve if I waited long enough."

He twirls once, with the idle flourish of a flower being spun between someone's fingers, the heavy velvet draped around him swishing in soft, watery folds. It's almost hypnotic. You want to run your hands through the fabric to see if it's as soft as it looks. 

"So? Thoughts?"

You identify the curtain as a wisteria purple robe. It has beautiful peach-colored patterns that shine with his every move. Underneath, a waistcoat that's in the same peach-tone hugs his frame with a couple misbuttons — embroidered with faint glints of coral gold that shimmer when he moves. A silk shirt spills open beneath it, loose-laced and collarless, you can see from the yawning sleeves of the robe that its cuffs are unbuttoned and trailing down his wrists. The ensemble being held around his waist by the sash aside — which you think is a tassled curtain tie back — his base clothes are white, the shirt and the slacks.

You blink at him. At least he knows how to color code, you'll give him that. 

"You're giving sentient curtain from Beauty and the Beast."

"Thank you," he beams. “I knew you would appreciate my vision. See these embroideries? They mixed apricot yellow and cerise to—”

"That wasn’t—"

"It was. Don’t backpedal now." He’s disinterested in furthering that conversation, attention distracted with the tin he’s fiddling with. He sniffs its contents with a frown. "Huh. Smelled better from the high shelf.”

You subtly throw your head back and close your eyes, exhaling, then, drift toward one of the tall stools tucked under the curved lip of the kitchen island and hop on one of the middle ones. You tune Rafayel out as you gape at the feast right in front of you. Snacks? These are snacks?

God, rich people.

Folded grape leaves stuffed with lemony rice, thin slices of cured meat, wedges of blue and brie and something veined with wine, jewel-toned berries, pistachios still in shell, and golden crackers fanned into spirals, pastries and oh gosh — meticulously arranged as though she was expecting guests. This was the kind of thing that gets instagrammed, not eaten.

"—altitude nostalgia. Did you know humans smell differently at different elevations?"

But your stomach has been grumpily bubbling under its breath for a while now, and this is food, and the combination of those two things makes you an uncaring, shameless heathen. Your mouth is watering. Who even cares that one plate is probably worth more than you are. Fuck it. In a single motion, your elbow is on the table and you're leaning over the plates, already grabbing a handful of the closest pastry and taking a huge bite.

It's flaky and buttery and filled with cheese and walnuts, and the crust practically melts on your tongue. You have to fight the urge to moan in delight, and subsequently come to realize the sound of your chewing is too loud. Rafayel's talking has ceased.

A featherlight touch on the wrist that might otherwise have you suspect you brushed against fleeting clothing hanging in your closet snaps you from your blissful, mindless gorging trance, and you turn to find Rafayel staring at you. His face is blank, and there's a slight tilt to his eyebrows, gaze flitting between your eyes and puckered lips, his hand on your wrist to stop the pastry from meeting its tragic end between your teeth.

"What?" you ask, muffled and full-mouthed, lips sticky, and cheeks bulging with the remains of the pastry. You try not to feel self-conscious about the crumbs on the sides of your mouth. Instead, you raise an eyebrow. "Don't judge. I'm a growing woman."

"Growing into what? An pearl? Slow down. Chew."

"You're not my dad, what's it to you?"

"I just don't want you to choke when I just saved you from drowning, you know. But you've got some..."

"Got some...?"

He points to his own cheek and mouth area, mimicking the mess you have on your person. Then, without warning or hearing what you might say in return, he reaches out and wipes away a fleck of crust on the corner of your lips. It might be an intrusive or an impulsive thought he gave into, you don’t know, but your face warms at the proximity regardless of the context or the reason behind it, the sudden familiarity of his gesture, and the way his thumb lingers, brushing lightly across the swell of your bottom lip as if to savor the texture. You're suddenly acutely aware of the intimacy of the act and the fact that you met this man only hours ago.

What is this? Is he just very touchy?

The copper begins to hum, steam from it rising in polished spirals, catching the light through a stained-glass transom high above the doorway.

You jerk back, wiping the rest of the mess with the back of your hand, and avoid the view of his hand staying frozen in the air, hovering in the spot where your face was, and the perplexed look on his face. "I got it."

His fingers curl inward as he retracts his hand, sliding it to his side. He doesn't respond, simply watches you in silence, his eyebrows furrowing for a brief moment as he rubs his thumb and forefinger together before smoothing out again, and you wonder if maybe you should've said thank you, after all. But the moment has passed, and the thought of apologizing now seems awkward, so you do the next best thing, which is to change the subject.

"What's that for?"

“This,” he announces, tilting the tin so the embossed label is emphasized with the light falling on it — a stylized silver fish leaping over a crescent moon — “is a Moonpetal brew. Aunt Talia only brings it out for very special occasions."

You eye the tin, then him. "Moonpetal? Sounds like something out of a fairy tale."

Or out of a very expensive, fancy health food store, the kind that promised enlightenment in a biodegradable pouch.

"Everything is a fairy tale if you know what perspective to look at," he says, his voice regaining some of its melodic lilt. He pops the lid with a soft thwack and a fragrant cloud billow out – notes of jasmine, something salty-sweet sea-salt caramel, and an underlying freshness that reminded you of rain on warm stones. It's surprisingly lovely.

He dips two fingers into the tin, his rings clinking faintly against the metal, and pulls out a pinch of what looks to be dried, silvery-white petals mixed with tiny, dark, almost iridescent leaves. He brings them close to his nose, inhaling deeply, eyes fluttering shut for a dramatic moment that makes his long lashes brush his cheek. "I missed this."

"Haven't been around lately, then?"

"You could say that," he answers, the way he dips his head to stare at the tea makes the purple waves of his hair shift like disturbed water. There's a particular undercurrent to his smile that you could only describe as something distorted underneath the surface of the sea.

Talia re-enters the kitchen then, catching you off-guard. You were too engrossed in the exchange to notice her arrival, but the sound of her humming catches both of your attentions. Her shawl is gone, lilac skirt swishing around her ankles and cream-colored blouse, which she's rolled the sleeves of to her elbows, is buttoned to her throat. The sun from the windows puts its spotlight on her immediately, making the shells on her earrings shimmer, the silver and opals winking in the light, and you notice that her nails are painted a pale purple.

"Sorry about that," she says. "It took longer than e — good gods, Rafayel."

Rafayel turns to her and spins, letting the robe flare, and strikes a pose. It's such a childish move that it takes you aback. "How did I do?"

"I remember that robe," Talia murmurs. She's smiling, though, even as her hand goes to her heart, clutching at the fabric of her shirt. "You used to run around with it all the time. You'd sneak in my room and steal it to play superheroes." Her eyelashes are damp, and the lines at the corners of her mouth are deepening in a way that suggests laughter. "I should've known you'd find it. You never could keep away from that thing."

You feel compelled to look away from the moment, and stuff a cube of cheese in your mouth, focusing your attention on the smooth marble counter, veined like seafoam. Somewhere above, a crystal suncatcher swings lazily from a brass hook, scattering color across the whitewashed archways.

"Hard to part with," he agrees. He runs his fingers through the folds of the sleeve, tracing the embroidery, his smile morphing into a distant, nostalgic shape. "This is a good look, right?"

"It is, you look just like a prince," Talia replies, her words holding an otherwise undetectable ‘humoring him’ element that comes off as genuine — and you have no doubt that she is being genuine, it’s obvious from her face that Rafayel is quite endearing to her.

Her attention turns to the kettle on the stove when it starts to whistle, and a flicker of surprise crosses her features. "Oh, were you going to make tea, dear?"

"Uh-huh." Rafayel glances at her and nods. "Moonpetal, to soothe her nerves."

“Good thinking, I was going to get that out for you anyway,” She steps closer, peering at the tin, her eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. "But didn't I put that on the highest shelf?"

"I came just in time to witness his mountain climbing expedition," you insert yourself into the conversation. With a smirk, you point to the open cabinets. "He's lucky the entire kitchen didn't come crashing down on him."

Talia gives him a disapproving frown, but her vast sunrays pf fondness breaks through the unenthusiastic storm clouds. She reaches out to gently adjust the collar of his robe. “Well, since you’ve already retrieved it for me… Come, let’s make it properly together.”

Talia brushes past him to retrieve ceramic cups painted with mother-of-pearl scales. Her fingers linger on his shoulder, a fleeting touch that seems to weigh more than it should.

You feel horrible for interrupting, but it’s worse to just sit there and be served. “Is there anything I can—”

Both aunt and nephew shut down the idea at the same time and their voices blend in different octaves of refusals, making you unable to differentiate who said what. So you sit back and make youself invisible for the time being, watching as Talia moves to the counter beside the stove, the colorful, slightly oversized duckling that is Rafayel trailing after her.

Both of them look out of this world. Or rather, the world of ordinary people you live in. It’s a weird feeling how you’ve intruded in this world, sitting on the kitchen island as they make tea together may just be the equivalent of the economy and business classes coming closest together when they’re separated by a curtain.

“Show me how you remember we steep it.”

Rafayel is an artist contemplating which color he should start out with as his hands hover over the teapot, and you nibble a pistachio shell into splinters as a thought crosses over your mind. They don’t seem too familiar with each other for some reason.

Well, it’s not your business.

The Moonpetal tea, surprise surprise, is what one would think liquid moonlight would taste on the tongue — cool and fresh and effervescent on your tongue, with a lingering salt-kissed sweetness that makes your shoulders relax against the wrought-iron chair. You’d helped Talia arrange everything on the patio overlooking the valley, where seabirds wheel in arcs below like scraps of paper caught in a draft, and was engaging in small talk here and there when she leaned forward, sunlight catching the opals at her throat.

“Your parents mentioned you’ve been managing their ferry? That’s wonderful! Such an important role,” she says, refilling your cup. Her fingers hold the porcelain gracefully, the thin gold band on the rim catching sunlight. Everything in this house feels impossibly refined, delicate, an unspoken judgment against your weather-beaten hands. “You must feel so connected to the sea.”

Your fingers spasm around the saucer, droplets of tea sloshing dangerously. Of course the conversation has stirred this way. You were hoping for your parents would arrive before that and you wouldn’t have to go through the ‘So, what do you do?’ question. The idea of discussing the life you're already averse to talking about with a rich woman, no less, is more daunting than the cult thing.

And worst of all, it's hopeless already, right off the bat. She's trying to be poetic about it, but there's nothing romantic about being the wheel of the car that transports people on a day-to-day basis. You aren't sure sure if you're connected to the sea. If anything, you're connected to the people who use the sea to connect. A bridge of sorts.

“Connected is...one way to put it,” you manage awkwardly, avoiding her eyes. The breeze picks up, ruffling the wisteria hanging from a lattice overhead. “I’ve been on the same ferry since I was fifteen or sixteen. Left for a few years, but—”

“I assume it was for school," she prompts, her smile gentle, encouraging, but you feel anything but pacified. Your stomach plummets darkly at the mention of school, at the memories of sitting on a bench in a crowded campus and knowing you were nothing. Knowing you were less than the people around you, and the sinking realization that all of it had been for nothing because you were crawling back home at the end of the day, the world still as large and uncaring as ever, leaving you behind to rot in the past. Just another faceless, nameless drop in the ocean.

“Yes,” you say, the word brittle. “School.”

There's a silence, filled by the low hush of the wind. The world narrows to static, blurring underwater as memories surge — your mother’s disappointed sigh when you moved back home, classmates’ LinkedIn posts gleaming like knives (Curatorial Assistant @ Metropolitan Museum!), the ferry’s deck tilting beneath your boots as waves swallowed the bow…

Talia tilts her head, delicately probing. “And afterward?”

You can't bear it. Not to make it awkward, or give her the details of your school life, you stumble over your words with the grace of a newborn calf trying to ice skate. “Graduated, degree and everything. It’s just... finding a position was—” You hesitate, humiliation rising. “It didn’t exactly pan out. So, I came back.” Your forced laugh breaks on delivery. “Back home, right where I started.”

“So many young people are struggling with the same problem these days. It's hard to find steady work. You’re very lucky to have a safety net to fall back into,” Talia says wisely.

Yeah, lucky me.

What a blessing, to be a failure in the outside world and have to return to the safe haven of the familiar. To know that the only place that values you is the one you feel so humiliated to feel such relief in stepping foot on again. And to feel that way, to feel embarrassed, ashamed of that sense of security and joys you've come to rediscover connecting with people and taking control of the ferry that was a ball and chain to you when you were younger; to feel unworthy, and small, and like a little girl again, a child in oversized clothes playing dress-up in adulthood. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

You bite your lip. Hard. Enough to draw blood and distract yourself from the shame that burns on your cheeks. Don't cry, don't cry, please don't fucking cry in front of a literal stranger. Your knuckles turn white from gripping the handle of the teacup.

“Besides, there’s no shame in that. You’re carrying forward a legacy. It’s noble.”

“It’s not really noble, though,” you mutter before you can stop yourself. Heat floods your cheeks. You’re unraveling and can’t reel it in. “I just steer a glorified car back and forth sometimes and run errands, carry stuff in and out, day after day. Anyone could manage it.” You shift uncomfortably, your voice smaller now. “It doesn’t exactly take talent.”

There’s a small noise from across the table, Rafayel, who you’d almost forgotten was there. He’s watching you intently, fingertips tapping lightly on the table, a faint, inscrutable frown marring his pretty face. Your embarrassment sharpens under his gaze.

“I disagree,” Talia presses gently, trying to salvage the moment. “It requires dedication, strength of character. Rafayel told me how you rescued those fishermen. You saved lives—”

“I also almost sank the ferry,” you say, before you can hold yourself back. “I’m not the best at this, unfortunately. They could have died. I could have died. There wouldn’t even have been a ferry left for compensation.” You truly laugh at the morbidness of it, but the dreary mood that follows makes you look up and you regret ever having opened your mouth. “I’m sorry, I just—”

Rafayel’s chair screeches suddenly as he stands, his robe billowing like a storm cloud. It startles you.

He's been so silent this whole time that you forgot he was there, curled up in his chair and observing the two of you speak, his head tilted in a way a cat’s would while watching a bird from a window. Now, his sudden motion makes the wisteria above shudder, and the wind picks up, sending the purple hair tumbling across his shoulders in waves of silk, his earring swaying.

"I'm bored," he says, the words clipped. He gives his aunt a pointed glance. "Are we done here?"

Talia's brows furrow. "Don't be rude. We have a guest, Rafayel." Her chiding is gentle, but firm. There's a certain authority to her that reminds you of how a parent would scold their child.

"Well, she clearly is. Look at her," he gestures toward you with a flourish of his sleeve, and for a second, his smile is a slash of lightning across his face. “Soooooo bored. All that landlubber talk is making her wilt. Glub glub glub, job job job. That's how it sounds. I can't stand to watch anymore."

Your mouth drops open. Landlubber?

But before you can protest, he's rounding the table, the hem of his robe dragging over the stone tiles, his bare feet making no noise. When he reaches you, he extends a hand, the gesture grand and sweeping. A prince from a fairy tale. The beads and thin chains of the bracelets you hadn’t noticed because of the concealing layers of fabric clink and shingle with the motion.

"Come," he says. "I want to show you something."

You stare at his offered palm, at the delicate bones and tendons that shift beneath the skin, the fine tracery of veins that run up the inside of his wrist.

"Umm," you trail off, wary of his motives and stealing a glance to a suspiciously calm-looking Talia. There's no trace from her earlier admonishing, it's all soft interest and a certain understanding now you aren't privy to. You wonder what that means. "It's okay, I'm not—"

"Yes, you are, you hate these talks," he cuts you off, and his hand stays suspended in mid-air, waiting. Patient, yet insistent. His fingers twitch. The sea breeze plays with the ends of his hair. Then, softer, gentler: "Indulge me."

Rafayel brings you to a damn lagoon, of all things.

Of course there's a secluded lagoon tucked away right in the middle of the island. Of course this happens to be an atoll.

As a kid, you'd spend hours scouring the coastline, looking for hidden places to be candidates for your secret base away from your siblings. It was thrilling, discovering a place that was yours and yours alone, untouched and untainted. Raf's cove and grotto became that for you, in a way, a private oasis that's yours to explore and enjoy. Except that it wasn't just a simple nook in a rock, rather, it was a legitimate, actual, real-life hidden paradise.

But this is something else. This is... a level of fantasy you're unfamiliar with. A shock and flash of endless blue, opening your eyes to sunlight after staying in the dark for a long time.

Everywhere is a kaleidoscope of hues, shades, and tints — a thousand variations of green and blue that shift and blend and shimmer in the afternoon light, creating a dazzling display cupped in the bowl of sugar-white sandbars, cradled within the surrounding forest that forms a ring around it. The water is crystal clear and pristine, reflecting the sky and the surrounding landscape with mirror-like perfection.

As you step closer, the sand squishes underfoot, cool and silky against your toes, and the sound of the lapping waves is a soothing backdrop to the rustling leaves and chirping birds. You swear you can see parrotfish nibbling at coral pillars and striped damselfish darting through shafts of sunlight and the shadows of large schools.

Yeah, you wouldn't take one step outside if this was where you lived.

You can't help the wonder from spilling forth, hundred percent sure that your eyes must be sparkling. "Wow..."

"Admit it," Rafayel says, already knee-deep in the shallows, and you sputter at the sight of the hem of his robe floating on the surface, the luxurious velvet a violet stain on the waters that's drifting and rippling gently. Not only is he ruining the fabric by not taking it off, but his pants are also intact. Can velvet even go in the washing machine? What is his pants made out of? How much would the dry cleaning bill would be? Oh god. Fucking rich people. "This beats talking about spreadsheets."

"We weren't even talking about spre—"

You're interrupted by something flying at your face, a pearly moon snail shell that thumps harmlessly against your collarbone before it ricochets off you and plops into the water with a plink.

“Catch!” He lobs another — a spotted cowrie this time — and instinct makes you lunge sideways like a goalkeeper avoiding a penalty shot. The shell sails past into a tide pool where three startled hermit crabs abandon their lunch.

“Are you five?” You swat at the next projectile, a spiraled whelk that left sand grit in your palm.

His grin sparkles with mischief as he flicks his impossibly long hair back, the wavy strands sweeping behind him, a silken curtain unfurling in a gentle breeze, and you ignore the Mom-like urge to tell him to tie his hair up. “You’re smiling.”

You weren’t — until he says it, and then you're fighting a traitorous twitch of lips as he bends to pluck something from the seabed, and there the lower half of his hair goes, getting wet. The robe is halfway ruined at this point.

Water sluices off his arms as he presents his prize, a conch shell blushed pink as dawn clouds, still glistening with seawater.

You open your hands to the sides, shaking your shoulders once. "What are we doing?"

He's not looking at you, instead, he's holding the conch between his palms, his long, slender fingers curving around its elegant curves. "You'd rather stay and talk more with Talia about what your shame thinks you're failing at?"

Your smile drops. The hot flashes are immediate. "Excuse me?"

"You're excused," is the casual response. An infuriating smile curls across his face as his thumb traces the delicate contours of the conch, lingering on a particularly rough patch.

"Listen," you snap, stomping up to him, and the splash is louder than intended. "I don't know where you got that from, you don't know what you're talking about—"

"Don't I?" Rafayel interjects with a knowing look.

He leans in, his lavender scent wafting over you, a hint of saltwater and a curious muskiness that reminds you of the depths of the ocean.

"You think these hands," he turns your palm upward, tracing saltwater calluses you'd tried scrubbing away with pumice stones, "are any less worthy than ones clutching a piece of paper from some ivory tower and treat it as a golden ticket to life?" His touch lingers over a fresh rope burn near your thumb webbing, and the heat of his skin seeps into yours. "How are you any less of a person? Is the fisherman's soul any less noble than that of the scholar's, or the artist's?"

You're speechless for a moment, staring at his hand cradling yours, the smoothness of his unblemished, ring-clad fingers a striking counterpoint to the weather-worn texture of yours. You try to pull your hand away but he doesn't relent, staring right into your soul with those horizon eyes of his.

“Of course not. That’s not — that’s not what this is about.”

“Isn’t it?”

His habit of answering with more questions is starting to grate on your nerves. You catch a brief flash of hurt in his quick blinks when you yank your hand away, feeling the sharp edge of his rings scrape against your skin. “What do you know about any of this? You’re just a wealthy kid who can afford to drag velvet through saltwater and mud like it’s nothing and — and you go around wearing a fur with nothing underneath, what... Spare me the lecture on shame or the dignity of hard work, you’re the last person who should be talking to me about it.”

He laughs in your face. He. Laughs. In. Your. Face.

And not a polite, demure chuckle either, no, the man throws his head back and cackles like a witch on a broomstick. Like you’ve just said the funniest thing in the world. Your blood boils. You're ready to grab the conch and bash his pretty face in, or at least shove his smug ass to dunk his head in the water, anything to get that mocking look out of his features. How dare he, to belittle you like that, to act like the entire conversation is a big joke. To mock your struggles and experiences and make them seem so trivial, when it's something that's been plaguing you since forever. Just because he's a trust fund brat doesn't give him the right to ridicule you—

"Yeah, okay. Alright. I get it." His laughter dies down with a loud exhale that has weight behind it, a distant look on his face that goes from somber to a prickly smile that raises the little hairs on the back of your neck. "I don't think it's me who you're angry at. I'm not the one calling my work, and the work of my family, a glorified car. Doesn't take talent, anybody can do it. Not noble. Isn't that right?"

The gentle approach suddenly turning into an unabashedly exposing angle hit you in the sternum, knocking the wind out of you, your chest starts to rise and fall in a panicked rhythm, hands curling into fists at your sides. "I'm not fucking doing this," you murmur, turning on your heels to march the other way.

"Where are you going?" Rafayel calls after you, infuriatingly light and playful in a way that gives away its purpose.

You’re not going to take this lying down.

"Don't talk to me," you throw back without looking.

"Why are you so determined to be miserable?”

You freeze mid-step, heart racing as you pivot on your heel. Your gaze locks onto him, eyes wide with disbelief, and your lips part in a silent gasp, any clever retort you could come up with having slipped away just when you needed them most. "What did you just say to me?"

He is a demon from the depths of hell, cloaked in a guise so enchanting it could make angels weep, cradling the conch shell still, turning it over as though contemplating an orb of secrets. The smile playing on his lips curls like a wicked crescent moon, glinting with trouble and utterly devoid of remorse, giving you the dread that he’s privy to every shadowy thought that dances through your mind.

"You don’t get to live what you meticulously planned in your little dream journal when you were sixteen, isn’t that what this is? End of the world as you know it?"

That is the final straw.

You realize now that you’re no more than an insect pinned under glass, a specimen for his twisted analysis during your fleeting stay in his world. The way he speaks, dripping with condescension, casually dismantling any shred of common sense and courtesy while he picks you apart — it all coalesces into a singular point of white-hot rage.

As soon as the words "My dream journal?" leave your mouth in a shriek that’s raw and torn from your throat, you're already on the move, a storm surging forward to retrace her path.

Your hand snatches his collar, fingers bunching into the soft fabric of his ridiculous robe, and you yank him down with a force that knocks the smirk clean off his face.

“You think this is about some childish fantasy? This is my life you’re sneering at and feel oh so comfortable just telling me to stop being miserable like a king demanding a court jester to stop the performance! You stand there, draped in… in whatever that is, looking like you’ve never had a real problem in your entire existence, and you dare to—to—"

Words fail you for a moment, choking on the sheer audacity of him. You jab a finger in his face, trembling. “You know nothing! Nothing about what it’s like to pour your heart and soul into something, to sacrifice, to believe you’re finally on the right track, only to come to hate the world you fought so hard to become a part of laugh in your face and send you crawling back with your tail between your legs! To have that piece of paper, that golden ticket, turn out to be worth less than the fancy toilet paper in your aunt’s gilded bathroom!”

The outburst rips through you and shakes your lungs, shuddering and violent as a rogue wave. Rafayel’s provoking smirk is gone and has been for a while now, replaced by a chilling attentiveness that is almost a calculated switch flip. He isn’t playing with the conch anymore. The silence that envelops him is more taunting than any argument could muster, as if he’s forgotten that it was he who kept prodding the beehive that is your emotions.

His eyes, wide and glazed over, seem to have lost their focus, and his lips part slightly. There's a subtle shift in his stance — not retreating, but leaning ever so slightly toward you in the space between you that has compressed.

But you don't see it.

Instead, you're consumed by the pounding of your own pulse echoing in your ears and the solid presence of him beneath your grip that you want to crumple up like paper. The warmth emanating from his skin where your knuckles graze the curve of his collarbone register as your own with how your blood is on fire. You’re too far gone, drowning in a turbulent sea of anger and humiliation, the raw sting of a confession laid bare keeping you blind to how still he’s become, blinding you to his dazed expression, as if he's caught in the eye of something both sacred and shattering.

“It’s not just about not getting to live what I planned!” you continue, voice cracking, like a mirror, or a dream, the pent-up shame and frustration of months, years, finally breaching the dam. “It’s the looks! The pitying smiles! ‘Oh, back so soon?’ ‘Couldn’t hack it out there, huh?’ It’s seeing everyone else move on, build lives, while you’re stuck in reverse, replaying all your failures! It’s the crushing weight of knowing you disappointed everyone, especially yourself. And then,” the words tumble out of your mouth like sea glass, smooth and worn down by years of turmoil and emotion. “then the worst part is… sometimes… sometimes it doesn’t even feel that bad. Being back on that ferry, feeling the deck under my feet, the people, the salt spray on my face… it feels right. It feels like breathing again after nearly drowning. And that, that tiny bit of relief, that’s the most shameful part of all! To find comfort and secretly enjoy the thing you were supposed to leave behind because it means you’ve failed at everything else! What did I do it all for if I was going to end up right back where I started, then?”

You take a moment to swallow down the angry tears, not looking up from your shaking hand about to rip his necklace right off. “Every single day I betray myself whenever I feel any kind of joy here. So yeah. Yeah, it is the shame. Is that what you wanted to hear? Does it feel good to hear that you were right?”

The ensuing quiet is deafening, filled only with the sound of water gently lapping against the shore and the occasional squawk of a seabird overhead. You can almost hear the ghost of his damned smirk in the breeze, can imagine his smugness, the satisfaction of having cracked open your vulnerabilities and laid them bare for his observation and mockery. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment and anger, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him, not willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing the humiliation in your face, the stinging in your nose that signals imminent tears, the tightness in your chest that threatens to suffocate you.

"No," he says softly, and the unexpected tenderness in his tone startles you.

Your head snaps up in a whip of your hair, your watery glare piercing through him, daring him to continue his charade of concern or pity, whichever cruel act he chooses to indulge in next. But his face betrays none of that. Instead, his features are etched in an earnest, worried way that's as foreign as his touch had been to you.

His brows are drawn together, lips pursed in a slight frown, and his irises are a stormy plum, darkened with a sincerity that seems out of place in the vibrant colors of the lagoon. His fingers twitch and relax, a rhythmic, anxious pulsing that makes the opals in his rings catch and refract the light, casting tiny, scattered prisms on his skin.

What is he, a child? What’s with the sudden remorse? He’s the one who provoked you to get the reaction he wanted. This isn’t a bonding moment, nor was it indended to be so. He taunted you without using a single offensive insult, made assumptions about you that hit all the weak places, all from his high horse — just to appear backpedaling at the very last second?

Yeah, no. You don’t fuck with that. He’s playing with you, the bastard.

"We’re done here," you spit, drop the grip you have on him, and begin marching off toward the direction of the manor, hoping to put enough distance between you and him before the dam breaks and the flood comes, your feet kicking up small splashes of water.

You stop though, sniffle vindictively, holding a finger up as if you just remembered something, and turn around, "One more thing. I hope you enjoyed making a show out of me and the momentary entertainment you got. Because the moment you take a step outside this island and cross my path, the first thing that I see that'll fit in my hand will be used to knock you flat on that dumb, pretty face of yours," you promise. "I don't care if you're rich enough to get me in trouble. Trust I have more reach than you. I don't even care you saved my life. Fucking stay away from me."

"You think my face is pretty?"

"Go fuck yourself!" The scream is so loud and sharp that the flock of seagulls perched on the rocks scatter in alarm, taking flight in a cacophony of screeches and flapping wings, leaving him alone in the center of the lagoon, his silhouette a lone figure in the midst of the disturbed waters and the swirling sand.

Rafayel stares at the wake of your departure, the conch shell in his hand. A slow, drunk smile unfurls across his face — half-dazed, half-devotional — as his knuckles drift upward, the pad of his thumb catching on the swell of his bottom lip.

As you round a curve shaded by flowering jacaranda trees, their purple blossoms fallen confetti on the path, you hear them. Voices. Familiar voices. Your parents. They are alare ready on the patio, Mom is sitting in one of the wrought-iron chairs, her shoulders hunched forward as she speaks animatedly with Talia, who is perched on the edge of her own seat, listening with that same serene attentiveness. Dad stands a little way off, near the balustrade, his arms crossed, looking out at the view, though his posture is stiff, alert.

The sight of them, solid and real, and oh-so-familiar, nudges a younger version of yourself from deep inside. You are suddenly a child again, wanting nothing more than to run to your mother and sob on her shoulder, to have your father stroke your hair and murmur comforting words after a nightmare.

“Mom? Dad?”

Their heads snap up. Mom gasps, a choked sound, and then she is out of her chair, stumbling slightly as she rushed towards you. “Oh, my baby! My baby!”

She collides with you in a fierce hug, her small frame trembling against yours, the familiar scent of her soap and worry enveloping you. You cling back, burying your face in her hair, the fight with Rafayel momentarily forgotten, replaced by a wave of overwhelming relief and a fresh surge of guilt for the fear you’d put them through.

Dad is there a second later, his big hands gripping your shoulders and rubbing your back, his eyes, red-rimmed, scanning you from head to toe. “You’re alright? You’re really alright?”

“I’m okay, Dad,” you manage thickly. “I’m so sorry I almost lost the ferry—”

“No, no, don't,” Mom sobs, pulling back to cup your face, her thumbs wiping at tears you hadn’t realized were falling. “We thought… we thought…”

“We’re just glad you’re safe,” Dad finishes, gruff with emotion. He turns to Talia, who has risen and is watching with a soft smile. “Mrs. Talia, we… we can’t thank you enough.”

“It was truly no trouble at all,” Talia says warmly. “Though, I must correct you. It was my nephew Rafayel, who found her and brought her here. He’s the real hero of the hour.”

As if summoned, Rafayel has appeared at the edge of the patio, presumably sneaking through while your family was having a group hug, his purple robe now clinging damply to his frame, the ends darkened and heavy. He's avoiding your gaze, his own fixed on a particularly interesting patch of flagstone near his bare feet, a subtle pout playing on his lips, looking less like a Ghibli prince and more like a drowned, petulant kitten.

Your parents turn to him, their expressions shifting to awe and gratitude.

“Rafayel, is it? Young man, we owe you everything,” Dad says, extending a hand.

“Yes. Yes, we do. Thank you, dear,” Mom echoes, stepping closer. “How can we ever repay you?”

“No need.” He finally looks up, his smile radiant, but his body language awkward, almost shy, as he takes Dad's hand in a firm shake. His fingers, long and pale, are a striking counterpoint to Dad's work-roughened grip, the glint of his rings catching in the sunlight and highlighting his slender digits. "I'm happy to help. Anyone would've done the same in my place."

"Nonsense," Dad insists, pumping Rafayel's hand enthusiastically. "You went above and beyond.”

"There must be something we can do. A reward, a gift, anything. It's the least we can offer."

"Oh, no. Really, you're too kind. Seeing her safe is the only reward I could ask for."

"But—"

"I won't accept anything, please, I insist." As they speak, the two of you lock gazes over their heads, and his smile stretches a fraction wider. "Besides," he continues, returning his attention to your parents. "There's no greater treasure than reuniting a family."

The conversation that follows is a short one. Your parents want to take you home as soon as possible and get you checked out by your doctor. They are adamant to pay Rafayel though, or at least send a gift, and he remains unfailingly polite and gracious in his refusal, which is infuriating since you know him to be the opposite of those things.

In fact, every part of this is irritating. The exchanged numbers with Talia, the promise of staying in touch, the hugs goodbye; all of it feels surreal, like it's happening to someone else, and you're merely an observer, hovering somewhere outside your own body. And then, just like that, it's over. You are being ushered away and find yourself in the boat your parents have taken here instead of the ferry. The motor chugs to life, and the shoreline slips away, carrying with it the island, the manor, Talia, and Rafayel.

He's standing on the dock, the sun beginning its descent behind him, his silhouette growing smaller and fainter. He raises a hand in farewell, a gesture that seems both oddly formal and strangely intimate. You don’t return it.

You miss Raf so bad.

“Are you absolutely sure you’re alright?” Mom's voice carries over the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull, a question she'd posed at least a hundred times. Dad is keeping one ear on the conversation, his hands steady on the wheel as he navigates through the choppy waters. “No headaches or dizziness?”

Wrapped snugly in a blanket she had insisted upon, you feel the boat's engine thrumming beneath your feet, a comforting vibration that seems to resonate with your bones. "I'm fine, Mom. Just tired," you slur your words, leaning into her shoulder. The warmth and familiar scent of her lull you into a drowsy haze now that you're fully safe.

“Let me just check,” she tuts, her hand gently probing your side through the blanket. “You said you hit your side when you fell?”

You remember the sharp pain when you tried standing up on that beach, the way you’d clutched your side, the blood staining your ripped turtleneck and the sand you were resting on. “Yeah, I think I got a nasty cut on the rocks or something.”

Mom frowns, her fingers pressing more firmly. “Where? I don’t feel anything. Are you sure it was this side?”

You sit up, a knot of unease tightening in your stomach, pulling the blanket away and lifting the hem of the borrowed sweater, then the t-shirt underneath. Your fingers trace the skin of your side, where the jagged rocks of the Teeth should have left their mark.

There's nothing.

Not a scratch, not a sore bruise, not even a faint pink line to indicate where the bleeding stripes had been. The skin is smooth, unblemished,.

You stare, bewildered, your mind racing back to the searing pain, the crimson stain, Rafayel not wanting to be piggybacked because he was afraid of hurting you further. It was real. You recall it clearly.

“See?” Mom sighs, relieved. “Nothing there. You must have just imagined it in all the chaos, poor thing.”