Art has always been fascinated by humans. The way you walk upright on two legs, or sail across the ocean to discover new lands. It's a little selfish, he can't help but think. You can fly in the sky in those big metal birds, walk on land, and float across the water. Or maybe that's just what his people have taught him.

But you don't seem to be like the rest. He's been observing you ever since you moved into that little house on the beach. The one painted a pastel yellow ever since you covered the old chipped paint. He's seen you plant pretty flowers atop the windowsills, and come down to the shore to inspect the shells that have washed up on the sand. Sometimes, you'll collect them in a little leather bag and take them back to your wooden home with you.

It's why he's started leaving them for you. Prettier ones from his home full of brighter colours, rather than the dull ones that wash up on shore. Watching the way your eyes light up in the distance is enough to urge him to continue, even if he knows how risky it is for the both of you. The shells turn into more: little trinkets now, too. Relics he's collected from sunken ships to form his own little treasure collection. Your eyes light up just as much as his did when you discover them.

There's a feeling in him, one he doesn't often have. Something about you makes him feel alive, like he belongs where he's at. He feels safe by the ocean, but there's a nagging feeling that always tugs at him that he can't explain. Watching you from the sea becomes more and more thrilling. He's become obsessed with the way your eyes soften and your lips turn upwards when you kneel and pick up the gifts he's left for you. It's exciting, he thinks, that he can make you smile in such a way.

A human that he's been taught to avoid at all costs expressing just as much joy as the young merchildren in his city.

Art can barely hold himself back from swimming closer. Getting a better look at your face, watching how your legs move up close. It's a stupid thought, he knows. Irrational, foolish. And it's one he's never thought of in relation to a human before. But you're so different from what he's been taught. You're gentle, sweet, and kind. You're everything merfolk have warned about and still, he doesn't care.

Every day is the same. The same little wooden home on the sand, the same soft face and hands, and the same soft expression in your eyes when you come down to the shore. Art can't look away. From a distance, he watches as you kneel down and collect the goblets he's left behind, or watch curiously as a school of fish swim by. He doesn't think he's ever seen someone so gentle around marine life before. Nothing like the children that come crashing and screaming when the sun is shining, or the fishermen who want to pluck the creatures from their sanctuary.

The shells and trinkets can only last for so long. He craves more. That's the only explanation for what he does next.

He doesn't do it right away. He waits until the coast is clear (both literally and metaphorically) and the sun has long since set. There's a feeling of dread and excitement as he crawls from the water. The night is quiet, and he prays it stays that way. But you always like the way the sea looks under the blue light of the moon.

He sits by the water's edge and waits. Tail submerged into the water, mostly out of sight. He doesn't want to frighten you right away. His stomach twists with nerves when he sees the porch lights flicker down in the distance, and your figure moving down the sandy shore like it does every night. He wants to call out a greeting. Invite you over. Ask if you've liked what he's brought you.

But there's a thick lump in his throat, and he knows that'd be too upfront. So he watches. Waits as your blurry features became more decipherable with each soft crunch of sand under your feet as you grow closer.