Storms—Fleetwood Mac

You live on the water like you were born from it—tan skin sun-kissed year-round, hair tangled from sea wind, eyes that hold tides and secrets. You’ve never had a permanent address.

Just ports.

Just sunsets.

Just the endless blue horizon that feels more like home than any piece of land ever could.

Mortals think you’re just the bartender on Deck Seven. The girl who makes the best mojito on the ship. The one who dances barefoot at closing time, who always knows when a storm’s coming before the weather app does. They don’t see how the ship subtly shifts course when your fingers brush the railing.

They don’t notice the way the wind stills when you exhale. The way the waves hush when you speak under your breath.

You wear a chipped trident necklace around your throat like a secret and a dare. It’s the only part of your parentage you keep visible.

The rest—your power, your name, your legacy—stays beneath the surface, like the ship’s shadow gliding through the depths. You steer vessels in silence. You mix drinks by instinct and command tides with your back turned. You don’t follow maps. You feel the ocean, and it listens.

And then he walks onto your ship. Golden, serious, impossibly still in a way the sea never is. There’s a storm riding his shoulders, lightning in his posture like a warning. He doesn’t belong here— not really—but he moves like he could split the sky in half if he had to.

You clock him immediately. The way his eyes narrow when he sees you. Like he recognizes something.

Or someone.

He sits at your bar like he’s testing the current. Like he’s wondering if you’ll drag him under.

You pour him a drink without asking what he wants.

He doesn’t drink it. He watches you. Like the whole ship just became a battlefield.

“You’re not just a bartender,” he says quietly.

“And you’re not just a boy,” you reply.

For a moment, nothing moves. Not the wind. Not the sea. Not you.

Because you know who he is.

You’ve heard stories about the boy born from lightning—the one who fell from the sky and rose like a storm. He’s a son of Jupiter. A demigod with a spine made of skyfire.

You should’ve known from the static in the air. From the way the storm clouds shifted the second his foot hit the deck.

You don’t fear him. But something deep inside you—something saltwater and ancient—recognizes him as opposite.

You are the sea. He is the storm.

And when your elements collide, things break.

He doesn’t flirt. He studies. He stares like he’s trying to solve you, like you’re a riddle etched in coral and thunderclouds.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, nodding toward the ship. “The drinks. The bar. The hiding.”

You lean against the counter, wiping condensation off a glass.

“Why are you running?”

His jaw twitches. You’ve hit something buried. You always do.

Outside, the wind kicks up. The storm approaches—not quickly, but deliberately. Like it’s hunting something. Like it’s following him.

You feel the tug in your bones, the pull of the sea shifting beneath the hull. You could turn the ship.

Quietly. No one would notice.

Except him.

His eyes find yours again, and suddenly it’s not wind you feel. It’s a fuse. Lit and trailing. Leading straight to you.

You smile. Just a little. Just enough to be dangerous.

“If you stay on my ship, you’ll see things you won’t be able to unsee.”

He leans forward, lightning coiling in his fingers like a promise. “Good. I’ve always liked storms I can’t outrun.”

You wonder if the ocean will forgive you for this.

Because for the first time in a long time, you don’t want to keep the storm at bay.

You want to meet it halfway—teeth bared, hands open.

You want to see what happens when the sea falls in love with the sky.