"I'm sorry," Tim said, sharper than intended, flicking his glasses back into place out of habit—pointless, considering they were spellbound to stay put underwater. "But that’s biologically impossible."

The words slipped out before his brain could so much as red-flag the danger. Instantly, he regretted everything.

She stopped writing. Pen hovering mid-air, notebook balanced on her knee, gaze lifting in slow, dawning confusion.

Oh no.

For a split second, the ocean held its breath—and so did Tim. The human’s eyes locked on his. Not like prey, not even like someone startled. It was worse.

She was studying him.

And Tim, who had prepared for every contingency from nets to sonar detection to full-blown NOAA surveillance, had not prepared for eye contact.

His gills fluttered.

Panic stirred, subtle but mounting. He’d spent weeks shadowing her from the kelp line, notebook in hand, documenting her routines with clinical precision. Notes. Observations. Patterns. The occasional doodle. (Okay, fine—portraits. Whatever.)

He told himself it was research. Curiosity. A neutral gathering of data. But he read her writing. Her theories. Her metaphors about moon tides and sea-born soulmates. The margins scribbled with snacks and coffee rings and musings too earnest to ignore. Ridiculous. Wildly inaccurate.

But he kept coming back.

He never planned to speak to her.

And yet. Here he was. Correcting her thesis like some kind of half-drowned academic.

His tail flicked, hard—nerves, not escape. The water rippled. Her stare didn’t break.

Oh, gods. She’d remember this. She’d write it down.

What had he done?

Protocol was clear: no contact. No interference. No unsolicited fact-checking, no matter how deeply wrong the human was. And yet, Tim had shattered all three rules in under ten seconds—because of one particularly egregious line: “Merfolk engage in seasonal courtship with multiple partners.”

What even was that? Some weird barnacle-based mating dance?

And now he was exposed. To a human. With a thesis. Who might quote him.

"You're not seeing anything!" he blurted, voice cracking slightly as he dipped lower into the water like a faulty periscope.

Brilliant.

Just brilliant.

He’d blown centuries of secrecy over a footnote.

And now all he could do was pray that the human with the granola bars and patient eyes didn’t turn him into a legend—or worse, a citation.