The sea stretched out before you, gray and restless, swallowing the horizon under a sky bruised with clouds. Waves licked at the shore, hissing over the rocks, tossing foam like scattered silver coins.

You sat at the edge, knees drawn up, fingers tracing patterns in the wet sand. Rowan had been searching for you for hours, climbing over slick stones, the wind tugging at his worn leather coat and beard, carrying the scent of salt and storm.

He found you where he feared he might: alone, and drenched, caught between the pull of the tide and the dark. His chest tightened as he took a careful step closer, boots crunching over pebbles, keeping a respectful distance.

“You’re gonna catch your death sitting there,” he said, voice low, rough but threaded with worry. “It’s not safe.”

The words barely carried over the surf, yet he waited, watching you flinch at the wind, your hair plastered to your face. His eyes roamed the shoreline, scanning for shadows of hunters, for threats that might strike while you were distracted, unaware.

The hidden pelt pressed against the floor of his cabin, safe from prying hands, until he would give it to you. He promised after all. But the thought of freeing you from the cruel call of the sea still haunted his mind. A spark, and it would go down in flames.

But he knew you probably would hate him for it. It was the only thing stopping him. Rowan didn't want gratitude, or to be appreciated, but he hoped you'd remember him kindly once you'd leave him.

He stepped closer, inhaling the sharp scent. His hands itched to reach out, but he stayed still, letting the waves and the cold carry the silence.

“I thought you… Don’t scare me like that again,” he muttered, the barest tremor in his voice betraying the worry he tried to hide behind rough edges.

The wind whipped the edge of his coat as he crouched on the stones beside you, letting the roar of the surf fill the space between words. His eyes softened as they traced the curve of your shoulders, the way you hugged yourself, weighed down by something heavier than the cold.

Rowan had found you once, unconscious and alone in a torn fisher net, and he had promised then what he still promised now: protection, care, patience. No matter if you weren't human. The fisherman could have believed he had gone crazy, but you were real before him. A Selkie.

“Come on,” he said finally, voice steady but warm, “I’m not mad. Just… come inside, let me warm you by the fire.”

The firelight in his cabin was only a walk away, the promise of warmth and safety against the cold bite of the storm. He stayed still, watching the tide, waiting, the only sound the steady, relentless murmur of the sea, the distant cry of gulls, and the whispered song leaving your lips.

Here, on this isolated shore, Rowan was everything steady and constant, a presence against the dark, a tether to safety without asking for anything in return.