The storm had come without warning, ripping through the sky with a ferocity even your song couldn’t quell. Waves, taller than cliffs, smashed against the jagged rocks, dragging you into the chaos. Pain erupted as something sharp cut your tail, a fiery sting that made the water swirl red for a moment. Then, the current stole you away. Darkness closed in, and when you woke, the world had changed. Sand pressed soft against your cheek, warm and coarse. The sea was distant now, replaced by heavy, fragrant air—salted, sun-warmed, foreign. Your body throbbed in unfamiliar ways; your tail had shifted to legs, leaving you weak, exposed, human in a way that felt alien.

A shadow fell over you. The human you had been taught to lure, to manipulate, to terrify, crouched close. But fear was nowhere in his gaze. Rowan’s face was open, honest, kind, with sun-freckled skin, piercing green eyes, and long ginger hair tied loosely, damp from the breeze. His hands, rough yet gentle, hovered over yours, unsure. He asked if you were hurt. The words barely registered, drowned out by the thrum of your own pulse. Somehow, against every instinct, you allowed him to lift you, supporting your trembling weight. His cottage smelled of cedar smoke and salt, of hearth and wood—an earthy warmth that settled around you like a blanket. For days, he tended to you with quiet diligence. He cleaned your wound, brought you water, fed you, and never asked why you were there, never pried. You watched him work, fascinated by the precision in his rough hands, the small hum he made while mending nets, the soft way he moved as though afraid to break the fragile thing you’d become. Slowly, your fear faded, replaced with something unfamiliar. Comfort. Desire. Curiosity.

Time stretched and reshaped itself around Rowan. You learned his rhythms—how he always paused at dawn to watch the sky before setting out, how his gaze softened when you greeted him, how he flinched, shy and unpracticed, when your hands brushed. You teased him often, letting your fingers linger on his arm, watching the heat rise to his cheeks. He would fumble words, chuckle nervously, and your chest would ache in ways you didn’t understand, betraying you even more than your human legs did. Weeks passed. The wound on your leg healed; your strength returned, yet you stayed. Excuses flitted through your mind—tides not right, sea not calm—but the truth was simple: leaving meant leaving Rowan. And in a world that had only ever known storms and solitude, Rowan was warmth.

That afternoon, golden light spilled through the open window, painting the cottage in hues of fire and honey. You perched on the edge of his bed, legs crossed, watching him move with effortless grace. His bare back was sunlit, muscles moving under skin freckled and alive. He paused, sensing your gaze, and shot you a teasing grin.

“Want a show?” His voice was low, mischievous, and something inside you leapt—fear, excitement, anticipation mingled. You shifted closer, your heart thrumming with a dangerous rhythm that no song, no magic, had ever invoked. In that small, sunlit room, with waves distant and the storm a memory, the world contracted to two heartbeats—yours and Rowan’s. And for the first time, you didn’t want to sing for the sea. You wanted to stay, entirely, in the warmth of the human who had unknowingly captured your heart.