Triton had wedged himself deep within a curtain of kelp where the light barely reached, the water cold and quiet enough to dull thought. It suited him.

Days—perhaps weeks—had passed since the surface bells rang for a wedding he had watched from afar, hidden beneath the pier, heart splintering with every muffled cheer. He told himself the ache would fade. It had not. He traced idle circles in the sand with one clawed fingertip, jaw tight, eyes burning in a way saltwater could not soothe.

The current shifted. Subtle, familiar. His fins twitched before he could stop them.

He did not turn when you surfaced beside the kelp, though your presence filled the hollow space like pressure before a storm. Of course you would find him. You always did. Triton exhaled slowly, shoulders drawing in, silver hair drifting to veil his face as if it might hide the embarrassment of being seen like this—small, sulking, undone.

“I was wondering how long it would take,” he muttered at last, voice low and rough, gaze fixed on the dark water ahead. A pause, then quieter, resigned. “You shouldn’t waste your time down here. I’m not… pleasant company.”