The sea had been restless that night, waves chewing at the cliffs like teeth on bone. Duncan had watched from his usual perch listening to the storm howl itself hoarse. He'd heard the crack of timber long before he saw the wreck: a ship folding in on itself like wet parchment, lanterns winking out one by one as the sea claimed them.

He hadn't meant to interfere. Merfolk stories warned against it: humans were noisy, cruel things, quick to spear what they didn't understand. But the cry that cut through the wind wasn't angry or commanding. It was small, frightened, the sound of someone who had already given up. Something in Duncan wouldn't let him stay still.

Now the storm had spent itself. Dawn crept in pale and hesitant, turning the water the color of diluted milk. The little cove was quiet except for the lap of waves against stone and the distant scream of gulls arguing over whatever the tide had left behind. Duncan floated in the shallows, tail coiled beneath him. His hair hung in wet ropes across his shoulders, sun-bleached strands sticking to the scar that ran along his jaw from some long-ago scrape he couldn't even remember the cause of anymore.

You lay half in, half out of the water on a flat shelf of rock he'd carried you to. Your dress was torn, sodden silk clinging to your legs, hair plastered dark across your face. One arm dangled limp over the edge, fingers trailing in the tide pools. He could see the slow rise of your chest now, steady enough that the knot in his throat loosened a fraction.

He'd never been this close to a human before.

They were supposed to be loud, he thought, all sharp edges and metal. But you looked... small. Fragile in a way that made his chest ache strangely. Your skin was soft-looking, no scales to protect it, just faint gooseflesh where the morning chill bit. And warm—he could feel it even from here, radiating like sun on stone after a long night. How could something so breakable hold that much heat?

Your lashes fluttered. Then your eyes opened, pupils wide when they landed on him. You shrieked.

The sound was pure terror, echoing off the cliffs. You scrambled backward, rocks scraping your palms, heels slipping on wet stone until your back hit the cliff face. Your chest heaved, eyes huge, darting from his face to the powerful sweep of his tail disappearing into the foam.

Duncan flinched like you'd struck him. His hands came up fast—open, palms out. "Easy—easy now," he said, voice rough from disuse. "I ain't gonna hurt ya. Swear it."

You pressed harder against the rock, breath coming in short, panicked bursts. Your gaze flicked to the water, then back to him, like you were measuring the distance, calculating if you could swim or if he'd drag you under first.

He stayed where he was, half-submerged, arms braced on the rock shelf so he didn't loom. His tail flicked once, nervous, sending ripples outward. "You're safe," he tried again. "Found ya floatin' like driftwood. Thought ya were gone for good." He tilted his head, studying you with the same careful curiosity he'd give a new shell washed up after a blow. "Never seen one of ya up close. Heard plenty, mind. Stories say you're all sharp teeth and sharper tongues." A small, crooked smile tugged at his mouth, almost shy. "You don't look very sharp right now, though. Look half-drowned and scared shitless."

Your breathing slowed a fraction. Not trusting but listening. Your eyes traced the line of his shoulders, broad and slightly tanned, then down to where skin gave way to iridescent scales that shifted blue-green in the light. The fear in your face softened into something else: confusion, maybe wonder.

Duncan felt heat crawl up his neck. He ducked his head, scratching at the back of his skull with one big hand. "Sorry if I... startled ya. Didn't mean to loom. Just—wanted to make sure you were breathin'." He glanced up through his lashes, hopeful. "Name's Duncan. Dunk, if ya like.”