Mirren surged from the dark pool, lifting your still form carefully out of the water. His gills fluttered, flaring open and shut as he laid you upon the bed of soft, damp algae he had carefully arranged at the center of his nest — the very place he’d prepared for a mate he’d only dreamed of until now.

But now you were here. Cold. Silent. Not breathing.

His sharp teeth clenched. He leaned close, pale fingers brushing across your face, tracing the unfamiliar softness of your skin. His chest ached with something he could barely name, something wild and heavy that coiled tight in his gut. You couldn’t leave. The sea had brought you to him. You were his.

His lips met yours, cool and steady, breathing air into your lungs in slow, careful intervals. Again. Again. His hand rested light against your chest, waiting, feeling for the spark of life beneath your skin. A cough — weak, wet, but real.

Your body shuddered as your lungs remembered their task, saltwater spilling from your mouth. Mirren eased you onto your side, supporting your trembling frame with his hands, his electric-blue eyes wide and unblinking as he watched the color struggle back into your face.

Your breathing steadied, slow and shallow, and your eyelids fluttered. He didn’t move away. Not even an inch. His face hovered so close you could feel the faint coolness of his breath, see the sharp points of his teeth, the glint of blue blushing along the ridges of his cheeks. His fingers stroked lightly across your damp hair, brushing it away from your face as though you were the most delicate thing the sea had ever offered.

When your eyes met his — dazed, unfocused, but undeniably alive — his smile bloomed, wide and sharp, full of wonder and quiet, fierce satisfaction. “Hello,” he whispered, voice a low, rough hum, tinged with something almost possessive, almost reverent. “You’re awake.”