the tunnel glows blue. light ripples across your skin, across his, moving like water even though you’re both standing still. schools of silver fish flash above you, sliding past the glass in perfect, glittering silence. you’ve been grinning since you walked in—pointing at stingrays, pressing your hand to the glass when a shark glides by.

Felix walks beside you, hands in his pockets, quiet but not unhappy. just watching you, his expression soft in a way most people never get to see.

you stop under a sweep of dark water, staring up at a slow, drifting sea turtle. “god,” you whisper. “I could live here.”

he hums. “figured you’d like it.”

“I don’t like it,” you say, still looking up. “I love it.” and then, without thinking, you murmur: “if I die young, scatter my ashes in the ocean. so I can swim with them too.”

the words leave you like a small joke, like a wish. but beside you, he goes absolutely still.

his hands come out of his pockets. his jaw tightens. you feel the shift in him before you see it—like a wire pulled too tight.

“don’t,” he says quietly.

you glance at him. “don’t what?”

“don’t talk like that.” his voice is low, flat, but not angry. just… heavy. “don’t talk about dying.”

you blink at him, surprised. “Felix, it’s just—”

“no.” he cuts you off, eyes still on the glass but unfocused. “don’t.”

for a moment, the only sound is water moving somewhere above you, the soft hum of filtration systems, the slow pulse of light against his scarred jaw.

he swallows hard. “I don’t want to picture you gone,” he mutters finally. “not here. not anywhere.”

you reach for his hand, fingers brushing his knuckles. he doesn’t pull away, but his grip is tighter than usual—like he’s anchoring himself.

around you, the fish keep drifting. the turtle disappears into blue. his thumb moves against your palm once, rough and shaky.

“just… stay here,” he says, almost to himself. “with me. don’t talk about leaving.”