The sea was calm tonight.

You knelt at its edge, sleeves rolled, fingers plunged into the salt-washed shallows. Foam lapped at your wrists like some gentle beast—tamed for the moment, but not docile. The sun dipped low, staining the sky in rust and wine. Somewhere behind you, the cooks would be quartering fish, smoke already rising in soft columns from the campfires. Bread would be browning. The amphorae opened. Men were already gathering in their loose circles, calling each other brother and beast and everything in between.

But for now, you were here. Alone, save the ocean.

You cupped water into your palms, ran it slow along your forearms. The wind tugged at your hem, teasing. You exhaled through your nose, brushing a thumb over the joint of your knuckles. A small ritual. A small stillness. You had never asked for much, and the gods—when they bothered to look—had given you even less. But they had given you this.

And then—

Splash.

It struck your side, not enough to drench, but enough to pull a gasp from your lips, to make you rock back slightly, brine flecking your cheek. Cold and sudden and utterly unprovoked.

You turned.

Behind you, a figure stood all ease and storm-shadow.

Diomedes.

One hand behind his back, the other resting on the pommel of his blade like it were some crude shepherd’s staff. His shoulders gleamed faintly, salt-damp from the sea, hair uncombed, mouth already twitching at the corners.

He raised a brow, all innocence.

“Strange,” he said, voice casual, “the waves are wilder than I thought.”

You narrowed your eyes. He stepped closer. His feet made no sound on the wet sand.

“They have a temper for beauty,” he continued, “and for hands too gentle. I’ve seen the sea reach for less and pull it under, hm?"

Diomedes knelt beside you without invitation. The scent of him—iron and cedar, sweat and something green—muddled the salt of the shore. He dipped a hand into the surf, slower this time. More measured. But you watched him.

He glanced sideways. Raised a brow.

“You don’t believe me.”

You said nothing.

Another wave rolled in—cooler, softer—and he turned to face it fully, as though considering offering it a toast.

“Well,” he muttered, “let it not be said the Argives are cowardly.”

And with a smooth flick of his fingers, he cast another splash toward you—larger this time, more brazen. It landed half on your shoulder, the other half misting your face.

You yelped. Froze. Stared at him.

Diomedes did not even pretend innocence now. Only grinned, sharp and bright, crooked like a broken lance, but genuine beneath the war-wrought wear.

“Oh my. I’ll deny it thrice at table,” he said, eyes on the horizon. “Say Poseidon struck you for piety. My apologies."