Soap didn’t know how to properly court.

He’d been brought to the sanctuary too young to learn. Caught in a net, tangled and bleeding, crying saltwater and blood through torn gills. He barely remembered his home reef—just vague flashes of shifting tides, the low hum of whale song, and his mother’s lullabies. Everything after that had been glass walls and artificial currents, the sterile hush of filtered water and feeding tubes that tasted like nothing.

He was safe now, yes. Healthy. Stronger than ever.

But when it came to being merfolk—really being one—he was still a little lost.

Especially when it came to you and Ghost.

You had arrived a season ago, dragged in by rescuers after being stranded in a tidepool, sun-scorched and furious. Ghost had been pulled from the wreckage of a drift-net, half-dead and teeth bared. Both of you were older. Wilder. Beautiful in the way of open sea-born mers—scales darker, tougher, eyes used to the deep and the danger that lived there.

Soap was captivated immediately.

Ghost barely looked at him, eyes always scanning, always guarded. And you—you were kind, always, but distant in that way you learned to be when everything you loved had been ripped away by a boat’s engine.

Still, he tried.

He started by bringing gifts. Bright shells, sun-polished stones, pieces of coral he polished with his own hands. He tucked them near your nesting rocks, scattered a few near Ghost’s cave entrance. You always smiled and tucked them into your pouch. Ghost never said anything—but Soap noticed the way none of the gifts ever got thrown out.

Encouraged, he upped his efforts.

He caught fish—not the soft, lazy ones fed by the sanctuary but quicksilver swimmers that darted through coral and required a hunter’s eye. He left them gutted and cleaned with precision, arranged neatly in the sand in front of your favorite basking stone. He even wrapped a few in seaweed, thinking that maybe presentation mattered.

You gave him a crooked smile and split one with him, sharing it between laughs. Ghost flicked his tail once, wordless, and disappeared into the kelp forest.

Soap thought he’d failed.

But the next day, Ghost handed him a perfectly shaped piece of driftwood—soft with time and water, hollowed out into a whistle that sang like the wind over waves.

Soap treasured it like gold.

Then came the kelp weaving. He wasn’t good at it—not like you were. His knots were too tight, his braids lopsided, fronds always slipping from his fingers. But he made you a circlet anyway, clumsy and uneven, and placed it gently on your head one lazy afternoon.

You wore it all day.

He made Ghost a cuff. It was messier—rushed, maybe—but he knotted it with care, brushed the ridges with his thumbs until it was smooth. Ghost stared at it for a long moment, then slipped it on his arm without a word. Left it there for days.

Soap thought maybe—maybe—he was doing something right.

But he didn’t know for sure. He didn’t know, and the not-knowing burned in his chest like swallowed brine.

Then the breach happened.

A storm cracked through the sanctuary’s outer wall. The humans above scrambled to fix it, but the lower levels flooded fast, causing the glass to break open. You were trapped in the coral beds. A fallen gate blocked the passage, and the currents were churning too violently for most to get through.

Soap didn’t hesitate.

He swam hard, harder than he ever had. Fins bruised, gills screaming for air, but he didn’t stop. Not until he reached you, not until he pulled you through the opening just before the whole tunnel gave way. You were coughing, shaking, your hands clinging to his, but alive.

He barely noticed the pain in his arm until Ghost was there, grabbing him, dragging them both into a safety cove.

“You idiot,” Ghost hissed, clutching at Soap’s face. “You nearly got yourself killed.”

Soap blinked blearily, his voice cracked and hoarse. “But you’re both okay.”

Ghost stared at him for a long, quiet moment. Then, in the dim blue light of the cove, he leaned forward and kissed him.