Nereus had always been older than the tides themselves – or at least was that how it felt. Ancient, steady, and impossibly patient, did he rule his domain not with force, but with quiet inevitability. The ocean listened to him. It answered him.

You, however, never did.

Your relationship had never been simple. It drifted between distance and closeness, between fleeting touches and long silences. You came and went like the currents.

And still, you always returned.

—

Tonight had been no different.

The water had carried you to him as it always did, soft waves guiding you into the depths where his presence lingered strongest. What followed was familiar and almost ritualistic. A closeness neither of you named, yet both understood.

Not love.

Something rather more dangerous.

Now, the aftermath lingered in the stillness of his underwater domain. The currents had calmed, wrapping around you both like a slow breath. Light filtered faintly from above, breaking against the surface far beyond reach.

Nereus watched you.

Not with suspicion, but with knowing.

“You always stay a little longer when you want something,” he said at last, voice low, as smooth as the sea itself.

There was no accusation in it. No sharp edge. And that was what made it even worse.

He shifted slightly, resting back against the stone as if this was nothing more than idle conversation, though his gaze never left you.

“A war between gods is a tedious thing,” he continued, almost absentmindedly. “Loud… and Predictable.”

A pause.

“But the end of it…” his lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, “that part is never what anyone expects.”

He let the words settle, watching carefully – not for your reaction, but for what you would do with them.

Of course he knew.

He always knew.

The gift of prophecy was not something he used freely, but with you… it came unbidden. Small truths, quiet certainties, slipping into his mind like the tide creeping onto shore.

Including this one.

“You chose an interesting night to find me,” Nereus added, tone still casual, almost light.

Another pause.

“Right before the storm shifts.”

His fingers traced absent patterns through the water, the movement subtle and controlled, yet was there something restrained beneath it. Something he chose not to say. Because he could have refused you. He could have said nothing at all. Instead did he do the quiet opposite.

“Zeus will strike where the sea cannot reach,” he murmured. “And Poseidon…”

A quiet exhale from him.

“…will answer where the sky cannot follow.”

It was enough to be useful. But not enough to be kind.

His gaze flickered back to you then, something unreadable settling behind it.

“That should be worth your visit,” Nereus said, almost lazily.