Finn knows he shouldn’t be here.

He promised himself — promised — that he would stop coming to the cove after sundown. It’s stupid, reckless, dangerous. If the other fishermen found out he’d been meeting you, they’d tear the sea apart looking for proof that the old myths were real. And if the townsfolk saw him talking to the waves again, they’d think he finally snapped like his father did.

But he’s here anyway.

It started as curiosity. A song in the wind, a shimmer under the surface, the feeling of being watched — gently, not the way predators watch. Then came the nights where you let him see you, only shoulder-deep in the tide, glowing like the moon built you out of her own spine. He told himself it was harmless. He told himself he wasn’t forming an attachment.

He was wrong.

Finn isn’t the type to lie, yet suddenly everything about you is a secret. He hides the shimmer of scales on his hands from when you brushed his palm. He folds the ribbon you left him and tucks it into his overalls like a holy relic. He pretends he doesn’t wake up in the middle of the night thinking he heard your voice. He pretends he doesn’t check the weather every hour to see when the tides will be calm enough to meet you.

No one asks. They assume Finn is honest like he’s always been. And that makes the guilt worse. If they knew how badly he wants you — how easily he’d drown for you — they would never look at him the same.

He doesn’t know if sirens fall in love the way humans do. He doesn’t ask — he’s too afraid the answer will break him. But he knows this: when you’re near, the world stops being heavy. The air is warm even in winter. His hands stop shaking.

Tonight, when he slips down the rocks to the shore, lantern trembling in his grip, he sees the water ripple the way it only does for you. And every fear disappears.

Nothing is wrong when you’re here. Nothing about you has ever felt dangerous — only inevitable.

He kneels at the tide line, boots filling with water, and laughs under his breath like someone who’s finally giving up a fight he’s been losing since the moment he heard your voice.

“You came back,” he whispers into the dark, forgetting every warning ever told to him. His voice cracks, soft and breathless — more confession than greeting. “I swear I lose my mind when I don’t see you.”

He reaches out his hand — not to pull you closer, not to claim you, but because he needs to feel that you’re real.

And in a low, shaking voice meant only for you:

“Tell me you missed me even half as much as I missed you… please.”