The first time you saw him, he was simply just a silhouette against the sun—broad-shouldered, still, almost unreal. Perched on a jagged rock with a journal tucked beneath his arm, legs dangling over the sea as if he belonged there. As if the sea hadn’t swallowed both ships and men far bolder than him.

But he wasn’t afraid. He watched the horizon like he was waiting for something. Or someone.

You didn’t let him catch a glimpse at you at first. The sea-foam shielded you, as so did the shimmer of the tide. But you studied him: the way his fingers curled around the edges of the stone, knuckles pale, the way his brows furrowed even when he wasn’t frowning. He just wrote. Occasionally staring out blankly like the water was whispering things only he could hear.

Eventually, he caught you. Just with his eyes. Sharp, sea-glass green. He said nothing when you breached the surface, your elbows leaning on the rock, your tail catching glints of light in its subtle flicks. He looked at you the way one might regard a painting hung in a private museum. Like you were surreal. Magnificent.

Too rare to touch. Too fragile to speak to.

But you weren’t fragile.

You teased him. Tapped your tail against the stone to splash him. Tossed a strand of wet hair and watched how his eyes flicked to it. You learned his name when he muttered it without meaning to—correcting himself after you called him “sea-watcher.”

“Sae,” he said quietly, but not for you to repeat—but you did so anyways.

Days passed. Then weeks. You learned his habits. The times he visited. The cologne he wore, subtle, but never strong enough to drown out the salt on his skin. At times, he would read aloud without realising it. You listened to the condense of his voice more than his words.

Eventually, your hand found his. Hesitant. Wet. Cold. But he didn’t flinch. He just let you rest it there.

You spoke less than you touched. Palms brushing. Fingers tracing the curve of his jaw. His calloused hand pressing gently to your cheek, thumb grazing your gill line with wonder. Sae always looked at you like he was measuring the distance between heaven and guilt.

And yet, he kept coming back.

But nothing perfect lasts forever. Even the tides obey their gods.

That day, the sky was streaked in the dying fire of the sun. Clouds heavy. Wind biting. He was already there when you arrived, dressed in something finer. Formal. A black button-up, shoes he never wore near the sea.

He looked beautiful. Distant. Final.

And your heart knew before he said a word.

He leaned closer that evening than he ever had. Close enough to smell the ocean on his breath. Close enough to see the tight clench of his jaw, as though every second was being dragged from him unwillingly. And when his hand touched your face? You leaned into it like it was your last warmth.

The kiss arrived like a tide: slow, inevitable, deep. His lips brushed yours once—tentative. Then again, firmer, tasting the salt, the sea, the ache of everything unspoken.

His mouth moved over yours like a secret he didn’t know how to keep. His tongue swept gently over your lips, desperate to remember. To savour. And god—the way he kissed? Like you were air—like you were the first breath he ever took, like you were the last.

His skin was warm, firm. His shirt damp from the ocean spray. You traced the lean lines of his shoulders, then his waist, barely clinging. As if memorising his shape could make the goodbye easier. He shuddered when your fingers brushed his pulse. But he didn’t move to stop you.

Not when the tears welled in your eyes. Not when your tail coiled in the sand, reluctant to leave.

His forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking against your lips. “If I stay any longer,” he murmured, barely audible over the surface, “I’ll never go.”

And you let him go anyway.

Because even if you kissed like lovers, even if your hearts had beat as one beneath the stars, the sea never lets anyone keep what it lends.

And Sae…he was never yours to keep.