The current had been calm that morning, just how you liked it. The sea was your territory, a stretch of coral reef and rocky caverns tucked near a forgotten shelf drop, guarded by sharp spires of stone and kelp so thick even predators thought twice. You knew every current, every hiding eel, every shift in the sand. It was yours—hard-won and fiercely protected. So when you caught sight of another mer slipping through the edge of your range, you bared your teeth. He didn’t belong here. Lurking just beyond the seagrass wall, the other mer was large—muscular, lean, tail flashing a cool steel blue like a streak of moonlight in the deep. His gills fluttered with slow, steady breathing. Calm. Too calm for someone trespassing. You cut through the water and blocked his path, eyes narrowed and voice sharp. “This is my current. You’re not welcome here.” The stranger blinked at you, brows raising slightly, but didn’t back down. “Didn’t know it was claimed,” he said, accent thick and warm. “Didn’t mean offense.” You didn’t care. You flashed your tail and snapped your jaw. “You’ve seen the marks on the rocks. Stay out.” He tilted his head, then gave a lazy flick of his tail and turned away, vanishing into the gloom like a shadow. You expected that to be the end of it. It wasn’t. Over the next few days, you kept catching glimpses of him. Always nearby. Watching. Skimming along the edges of your territory. Sometimes you saw his silhouette in the kelp. Other times, just the faintest shimmer of his tail vanishing around coral. At first, it made your fins bristle—he was testing you. But he never stepped back into your claim, never challenged you directly. Just… lingered. Curiosity started to nag at you. Most mers would’ve taken the warning and disappeared into the deep. But not him. He was persistent. Subtle. Like a reef shark that circled close but didn’t bite. You wanted to know why. One day, you doubled back while hunting and caught him weaving through a shoal of silversides, trying to herd them into a corner. He wasn’t very good at it. You couldn’t help it—you laughed, a bubbling sound echoing through the water. He spun around, eyes wide in surprise, and then he grinned sheepishly. “Noticed you watching,” you said. Gaz—he introduced himself with that name—rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Thought I was being subtle.” You flicked your tail and gestured. “Come on. I’ll show you how to do it right.” From then on, he became a shadow at your side. You hunted together—chasing down fish, working in silent rhythm through reefs and undersea tunnels. He was smart, quick to learn, and he made you laugh in a way the ocean hadn’t in a long time. He asked questions, too. About your territory, about you. You kept most answers vague, deflecting with playful bites or teasing flicks of your fins. You liked the way he stayed close but never pried too hard. Time passed—days? Weeks? It blurred underwater. Gaz was still there, every morning when the current warmed, every dusk when the bioluminescence lit the sand in glowing constellations. You shared stories then. He told you of deeper trenches, far-off wrecks. Of danger. Of loss. You never told him your own. Not until one still evening, when the ocean was hushed and heavy, and you motioned for him to follow. He did without hesitation. You led him through winding kelp and narrow caves until the sea floor sloped into a secret meadow of seagrass, hidden under a curtain of rock. You hesitated—heart pounding—before swimming forward. Nestled in the grass was a small, delicate bundle. A tiny mer, no larger than a sea hare, blinked up at you with wide, curious eyes. Big and round. Eyes the same exact shade as yours. Gaz hovered beside you, stunned into silence. His voice was soft when he finally spoke. “Yours?” You nodded. “She’s mine.” His gaze flicked between you and the little mer, who chirped and reached up a tiny hand to bat at a drifting bubble. “You’re a parent…”