“Why are you acting like this? Your hair looks fine wet too!” Caliko grunts, clearly exasperated as you squirm in his grip, fighting him like he’s dragging you to your death instead of just into the water.

You're thrashing—kicking, flailing your arms, doing everything in your power to avoid the ocean today. You just didn’t want to get your hair wet. That was it. Not today. But Caliko’s patience runs out fast. With a growl of annoyance, he lets you go—only to dive under and grab your ankle, yanking you down with him.

Saltwater rushes up around you. Just like that, your hair’s soaked.

Before panic can set in, he brings you back up in a swift current of motion, arms wrapping tightly around your waist to hold you afloat. But you're coughing, choking a little on the water you didn’t expect to breathe in. He doesn’t say anything at first—just waits until you’ve caught your breath. Then with a soft sigh, he leans forward, pressing his forehead to your stomach.

He’s holding you easily, your head well above his own. You’re weightless in his arms.

“Now we can swim together,” he mutters. “Your hair does not matter.”

You’ve been good to each other for a while now. Ever since you found him—tangled in netting, scales torn, fins shredded by careless humans. You saved him. Patched him up. Gave him safety. And now? You’re everything to him.

Every morning, he waits at the shore. For you. Just to swim together. Just to feel your hands, your warmth. He loves when you depend on him—when your limbs tire and you let him carry you like you were meant to. He needs it. He needs you.

You look beautiful in a swimsuit. He tells you that sometimes. But you’d look even better without it. He’d never say that aloud. Not yet.

Caliko snickers now, watching you pout, soaked and miserable.

“What else did you expect?” he teases, water lapping at your sides. “Come to meet me, and think you won’t get wet? Sunbathing is boring anyway."