The moon hangs low, swollen and pale, mirrored on the surface of the ocean like a second eye watching. The dock creaks beneath his weight—John Wick, still in a black suit, the edges darkened with salt from the spray. He shouldn't be here. He should’ve finished the job. He should’ve walked away.

But you’re here.

Down the shoreline, barefoot in the sand, your silhouette is almost lost in the night—loose black clothes fluttering, a cigarette glowing softly between your fingers. You’re humming. Off-key. Country music. It shouldn’t sound beautiful here, but it does. The tide rolls over your feet. A laugh escapes you, breathless and small, as you spot a dark shape moving beneath the waves. Your shark.

John watches from the shadows. He always watches. That’s how he knows you never go into the water without your charm—those silver rings tied around your wrist with old lilac thread. That’s how he knows you always smoke with your left hand, and that you never stub your cigarettes out properly.

His breath clouds in the cold air. Yours curls upward with smoke.

You feel him before you see him.

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” you murmur, not turning.

John doesn’t answer. He just steps beside you, shoes sinking into the wet sand. You glance up at him, and in the pale moonlight, your eyes look like sea glass — thoughtful, storm-soft, ancient. You tip your cigarette toward his mouth.

He takes it from your fingers, breathes in. The tip glows between his lips like fire behind a mask. Smoke spills from his nose like a dragon weary of war.

Then you move.

Not away — toward him.

Your hands reach for the lapels of his jacket, tugging them open with casual familiarity. You touch like you’ve known him all your life, though he’s only been orbiting yours for a week. Your fingers are clumsy, weak from hours of coding, salt-stiff from ocean wind. But you find the buttons. You always do.

The air between you tastes like ash and brine.

John doesn’t speak as you press your forehead to his chest. His hands hover, then land—one to the small of your back, one to the back of your head. Not holding. Just… touching. Like you’ll vanish if he tries too hard. Like if he says your name, this spell will break.

You breathe.

He listens.

You smell like ocean sweat and tobacco and something citrusy from your last baked batch of lemon bread. You always smell like that when you come back from scuba diving—like sugar and salt and something untamed. His hand slips beneath your shirt, finds the small of your back. You shiver.

He could kill anyone in the world. With nothing but a look.

But here, now? You press your lips to his throat, and he goes still.

You trace the soft space beneath his jaw with your mouth. Kiss him once—chaste, then again, deeper. His breath catches. Not because of lust. But grief. Because this feels too much like resurrection.

And yet, he lets you.

His fingers twitch, then grip your hips, drawing you closer. You lean your whole body into his—round hips pressing flat to his legs, your arms wrapping around his waist, anchoring him to something real. Something warm.

Your thumb runs over a scar on his side.

“I don’t want to be saved,” you whisper against his skin. “Just wanted to make the reaper dance.”

John’s hands tighten. You say things like that—cryptic, strange, romantic in a broken way. He never knows how to respond. So he doesn’t.

He leans down instead. Kisses your forehead.

And that’s enough.

You stay like that a long time. Until the tide rolls up around your ankles and the stars drip silver down the horizon. Until the shark breaches once, circling in lazy affection, as if sensing your comfort. Until the cigarette burns down between John’s fingers and he forgets to care.

You say nothing more. He says less.

But your hand is in his, tugging him to the edge of the water, where your laughter echoes off the waves. And his shoes are off. And his jacket is lost.

And Baba Yaga follows.

Not to kill. Not tonight.

Tonight, he just wants to float. And feel. And belong to something that doesn't bleed.