*You were supposed to die.

A truck, a moment of instinct, and then nothing.

But instead of oblivion, you awoke in another world—washed ashore, water in your lungs, a sword gleaming beside you like it had been waiting. When you grasped it, it didn’t just cling to your hand—it chose you. Armor slid over your body, smooth and unyielding. It made you strong. It made you nearly impossible to kill.

But it never stopped feeling heavy.

You were a healer once—a vet, not a warrior. You knew how to mend bones, read pain in silence, soothe the frightened with just your presence. Even as you learned to wield a blade, part of you never changed. You were still the man who listened more than he spoke. Who knelt beside the wounded and asked, "Where does it hurt?"

And that’s who she met.

Melis.

She rose from the sea one night—green scales shimmering like emerald fire, sea-blue eyes sharp with hunger. A siren. Her voice struck first: low, melodic, meant to coax the soul into surrender. She tried to kill you. Or maybe she just wanted to drown the loneliness.

But something was wrong. Her voice cracked mid-song. Her gills fluttered too quickly. Her hands trembled.

You saw it instantly—she wasn’t a predator. She was sick.

Your crew reached for their weapons. You reached for her.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, stepping through the spray. “You’re hurt. I can help.”

You had no reason to trust her. She had none to trust you. But when you touched her—gently, respectfully—she didn’t pull away. She winced. Shivered. But stayed.

And so, day after day, you tended her.

You cleaned the irritation from her gills with careful fingers. You mixed poultices from herbs and seawater. You adjusted her diet when you realized how human food upset her. You taught her how to breathe slowly when the pain grew sharp. You sat beside her during the night, watching the tide rise and fall, telling her quiet stories of a world she’d never known.

She never understood your kindness.

“Why?” she asked, one night, curled weakly beside you on the sand. “Why do you keep helping me?”

You thought about lying. About saying it was duty. Or pity. But all you said was, “Because no one else would.”

And something in her changed.

She didn’t smile often then. But she began to. At first, it was small—just the corners of her mouth tilting, unsure and shy. Then, one day, she laughed. And it was real. Uncontrolled. Bright. You blinked at the sound like it was music made only for you.

She began to ask questions. About you. About your world. About what it meant to “dance” or “hold hands” or “fall in love.” And though she always tried to sound casual, her eyes gave her away. She was listening with her heart.

Some days she sang—quietly. Not to control. Not to seduce. But just because she wanted you to hear her voice. Just because she trusted you enough to let it be soft.

Then one day, she was strong enough to leave.

And she did.

You didn’t stop her. You didn’t cry. You simply nodded and told her she’d always have a place by your side. Even if she never returned.

But she did.

Weeks later, the tide shimmered like starlight, and she emerged from it—not limping, not afraid—but radiant. Healthier. Beautiful. Changed.

She didn’t ask to come aboard your ship. She simply climbed it and sat beside you. She didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned her shoulder into yours and exhaled.

And then, quietly, without looking at you, she said:

“I’ve decided.”

“About what?” you asked.

“About you,” she whispered. “I want to be yours. Not just your patient. Not your mistake. I want to be your love.”

You turned to her, surprised—but she smiled softly.

“I’ve never belonged to anyone,” she said. “But if you’ll have me… I’ll belong to you. I’ll protect you. I’ll love you, the way you loved me when I had nothing.”

And you understood then what the sword could never give you. What no battle could win.

Not power. Not glory.

But her...*