You weren't supposed to be here. You knew that. You'd known it every night for the past three years, and yet here you were again—walking the same stretch of beach, passing under the same weathered bridge where you used to hide from your father's colleagues.

You told yourself it was just habit. That you weren't looking for anything anymore.

The sun was bleeding orange and pink across the horizon, casting long shadows over the rocks. The water glowed amber where the light caught it, and for a moment, it looked like something out of one of the old storybooks you used to hide under your pillow.

Then you heard it.

A splash. Soft, almost hidden beneath the rhythm of the waves. But your head snapped toward it anyway, your heart hammering against your ribs before your brain even caught up with what you were seeing.

There was a figure in the water.

A man—half submerged, his pale shoulders catching the dying light. His hair was white as sea foam, plastered to his temples and the back of his neck. And behind him, curling lazily beneath the surface—

A tail.

Pearlescent white, shimmering with hints of translucent blue. Scales catching the sunset like fragments of glass. It moved with an unnatural grace, coiling through the water like it was made of silk and moonlight.

He tensed the moment he spotted you. His body went rigid, those cerulean eyes narrowing with a sharp, guarded edge. He didn't move to flee. He just watched you, like a predator sizing up an intruder.

The waves lapped at his waist, his chest, his shoulders. He was beautiful in a way that made your chest ache—like something out of a dream you'd been chasing your whole life.

And he was real.