Namor realizes—again—that he has made a tactical error long before you even reach the shoreline. He should have known this would happen. Should’ve predicted it. He is over a century old and yet here he is, undone by your stubborn two-legged terror of the sea.

The ocean is calm today, (at least to him), a restless silk shifting in shades of silver-blue. The breeze tastes like salt. The horizon glows faintly gold as the sun begins its slow descent. Everything is perfect. Everything is exactly the way he wanted it.

Except you.

You stand ten paces from the waterline as if it might leap out and bite you. Toes digging into dry sand. Arms crossed in front of your chest like a shield. Your jaw tight with a tension he has learned to read: this is fear, pride, and pure human stubbornness bound tightly together.

He watches you with that unblinking, razor-edged patience that scares diplomats and delights no one.

“You are being ridiculous,” he says.

You give him a death glare sharp enough to cut fishing line. He would be amused if the situation weren’t driving him mad.

“I’m being alive, thanks,” you shoot back. “You know, by not putting myself into the giant, gaping void full of things that can eat me.”

“It is not a void,” Namor huffs. “It is my home.”

“Exactly.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. He looks at you, at the absurd distance between your feet and the lazy curl of the waves, and something inside him coils tight—frustration, yes, but also affection so fierce it borders on humiliating.

You, a brilliant biologist who can name every species of shark by silhouette, who lectures him about sustainable reef restoration like he’s an unruly intern, are terrified of the very thing you adore.

Thalassophobia. That’s the word. He learned it last month. He hates it. Hates how it owns you. Hates that he cannot simply lift it from your mind like a net from a boat. He would, if he could. He would do anything.

But he has never been gentle by nature, and patience feels like sandpaper against his pride.

Namor strides toward you, each step smooth and confident, the little winged ankles humming faintly with restrained energy. The ocean responds to him in a sweeping hush like the tide is greeting its wayward king.

He stops in front of you, tilting his chin down. You refuse to look at the water. You look at him with that half-challenging, half-pleading stare that coils heat under his ribs.

“You promised,” he reminds you.

You groan. “I promised I’d try. This is me trying.”

“You have not moved,” he says.

“I moved internally.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. A sound dangerously close to amusement. You’re lucky he loves you, he thinks. Anyone else would already be in the water—willingly or not.

He softens. He hates that he does, but he does. He reaches out, brushing your knuckles with his fingers. He feels your pulse jump. Human hearts do that so dramatically.

“Come with me,” he said. The words were a king’s proposition, softened only by the fact that it was you.

You shrank back, just a fraction, a subtle tightening around your mouth. “Namor…”

“What are you afraid of?” he asked, and the question was genuine, layered with his own frustration. He was a man who conquered fears, who drowned them in the deep. This passive, immovable terror was a language he didn’t speak. "The sea is life. It is freedom.” He took your chin, his touch firm but not rough, forcing your gaze back to his. “You would be my queen. How can you rule a kingdom you are too frightened to touch?”

He saw the hurt flash in your eyes, and a part of him, a small, submerged part, winced. But the larger part, the king, the god, pressed on. This was for your own good. For their future.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎