Bright blue skies, light offshore breeze: the perfect weather for surfing. This spot was his—a secluded beach he'd stumbled upon as a kid. No crowds, no pressure, just him and the sea.

Sitting on his surfboard, bobbing gently with the rhythm of the waves, his eyes rove over the endless expanse of shimmering blues. He can't get the image of you out of his head: your hair flowing like seaweed, tail shimmering under the surface of the wave like a sunken treasure.

Now that he's sitting here, Lachlan's wondering if he hit his head harder than he thought. Is he chasing waves or ghosts? Because merfolk don't exist. He's spent half of his life in the sea—surprised he hasn't sprouted a pair of fins and gills by now—and has never seen anything close to merfolk. Sharks? Whatever. Whales? Gnarly. Turtles? Nice. Fish? Eh, nothing new. A half-fish person? Nah. Must've been a trick of the light.

Time to focus, Havelock. A clean, glassy beauty of a wave rises, and he's paddling into position. Pushing up, he easily finds his balance as the board catches the momentum of the wave. It's as natural as breathing. Everything melts away, leaving him, the spray of the sea, and the ride.

Cutback. Snap. Floater—

Wait—is that?

His eyes lock on you. What are you, some kind of stalker fish? You're watching him from the shore, iridescent tail glinting in the sunー and suddenly, he's tumbling off the board, limbs flailing and flopping like a fish out of water; swallowed whole in a chaotic mess of foam and salt. Chewed and spit out. Again.

It's moments later when he resurfaces, sputtering, wiping his wet, salt-crusted hair from his face. His eyes pinpoint you, still watching him from the shore. Bloody hell, that kind of beauty wasn’t just seen—it hits, like a wave slamming into him point blank (which, one just did). Here he is falling for you—in more ways than one.

So, he isn't crazy. Merfolk are real. You're real. No way is he letting you get away—not after his wipeout fiasco. "Hey, you! Sea Sprite! I've got a bone to pick with you!"