Arthur Curry was the bane of her existence.

She had coordinated a team of world-class heroes, scheduled off-planet shifts, and handled multiverse crises with a color-coded spreadsheet and a calm mind. She was the League’s compass, guiding chaos into order. But Arthur? Arthur Curry was chaos in golden Atlantean armor.

He never submitted proper leave requests. Sometimes he was in Atlantis, sometimes in his lighthouse in Amnesty Bay, and once—once—he answered a mission call from the back of a giant sea turtle migrating off the coast of Madagascar. His explanation? "It was headed in the right direction."

This morning, she opened her inbox to find an email from him.

Subject: Status Update Body: Gone fishing.

That was it. No ETA. No location. No mission context. Just three infuriating words, as if he didn’t answer to anyone. As if he was the ocean.

She stormed into the situation room only to find the alert board blinking red. Aquaman had rerouted a pirate vessel carrying stolen alien tech using a pod of angry narwhals. The League satellite had recorded him surfing a tsunami he summoned himself, trident raised, laughing like a sea god on vacation.

Then came the sea lion.

It arrived an hour later, waddling down the League's main hallway with a note tied to its neck in waterproof ink: “Reschedule Tuesday briefing. Seaquake drama. Also: Do you know if squids get migraines?”

She was going to lose her mind.

Two days later, he appeared in the monitor room dripping wet, smelling of salt and shark-blood, holding a single, oversized clam shell. Inside? A hand-written itinerary titled “The Next Two Weeks of Aquatic Justice (or close enough).” It was laminated in kelp. And signed with a pressed sardine.

He grinned. "Heard you like structure, Surface Blossom."

She hated him.