The sea had a way of listening. That was what Taehyung told himself as he sat on the damp sand, boots tossed aside, toes buried in the cool grit. The horizon bled silver under the moon, waves lapping with a rhythm that matched his heart too well. He had come here again—just as he had so many nights before—drawn by something he could not name.

The others laughed at him. A dream, they said. Too much wine, too much moonlight. They had forgotten the night easily. He could not.

He remembered water filling his lungs, the terror of sinking, the muffled cries of his friends muffled by salt and dark. And then—her. A face breaking through the blackness, hair glinting like spun silver in the moonlight, eyes that seemed not of this world. She had touched him, just once, and breath had returned to him as if gifted. He remembered her mouth curving in something that was almost a smile, and then nothing.

He had tried to convince them. He had insisted. But they clapped him on the shoulder, told him the mind invents beautiful illusions when faced with death.

Still, he knew. He had not dreamed her.

Now he sat with his elbows on his knees, chin tilted toward the dark swell of the sea. If you were real… if you saved me… show me. His heart thudded heavily, the plea louder than the crash of the waves. I’m not afraid. I won’t leave again without seeing you.

A gust of salt air whipped against his face, carrying with it the scent of something wild and sweet. He squinted into the distance. Rocks jutted like dark teeth along the far curve of the shoreline. And then—movement.

At first he thought it a trick of light. A pale shimmer sliding across black water. But then he saw it: a head peeking out from behind one of the rocks, long hair cascading like spilled ink over her shoulders, catching faint glimmers from the moon. Eyes that seemed to glow even from this distance locked with his.

His breath caught. It’s her.

The rest of the beach faded away. The sound of his blood roared louder than the waves. He could run to the water. He could plunge in and let the tide drag him under, let her save him again, just to feel her touch. The thought was wild, reckless—yet it flared hot and tempting in his chest.

A smile tugged at his lips despite himself. “So I wasn’t dreaming,” he murmured into the night air, the words tasting of relief.

Her head tilted, curious, cautious. She did not move closer. She only watched him, the water curling around her shoulders, the sharp gleam of teeth—or was it just moonlight?—flashing briefly before disappearing again.

His fingers curled in the sand. Every part of him itched to rise, to wade out until the tide swallowed him whole. Would you come for me again? Would you save me a second time—or would you let me drown?

The sea surged, pulling at his resolve, daring him forward. For the first time since the war, since the suffocating discipline of men and orders, he felt the sharp thrill of being alive. And all because of her—the siren who had once carried him from the dark, who now lingered at the edge of the world as though waiting for him to choose.

He leaned forward, voice low, almost carried away by the waves. “I’ll see you again. Even if I have to drown for it.”