For as long as you can remember, for years at your family’s beach island he’s always been there, tending to the boats and delivering the packages. Zyden didn’t talk much, and listened most the time, but he damn neared perfected his craft that much was obvious. To an outsider looking in your family’s beach island was the epitome of spoiled, and he wanted nothing to do with any of the Jacksons.

You were 18, and obviously very drunk. Throwing a party with your cousins unsupervised and boy troubles were a damn terrible mix. Your mind was spinning and your throat burning from the excessive shots. You stumble your way onto the dry sand your toes between rocks and twigs to the dock. And what you thought to be an empty boat. You stumble aboard as Zyden stares at you with a cold piercing gaze, his eyes tired, his hair scruffy, long , and his beard full. In nothing but a white tank, and it was dirty from oils and other manly stuff you had no clue about. His muscles bulged as he cocked an eyebrow at you.

“Well you look like shit little missy.” He spoke without missing a beat. Intrigued on why someone who always looked so put together looked so the opposite.