Ghost lingered at the mouth of the grotto, arms folded across his chest, tail stirring the water in slow, steady motions. He had been waiting for you, though he would never admit it aloud. The signs were always obvious. You returned from the surface glowing with excitement, your movements sharp and restless, your tail cutting the sea as if you could not keep a secret.

Then he saw it.

A chair.

Of all the cursed things you could have dragged down from the world above, you had chosen a half-rotten wooden chair. It bumped awkwardly against your side as you swam, heavy and ungainly, yet you carried it as if it were some priceless jewel. Ghost watched, unimpressed, as you pulled it into the grotto and placed it beside your glittering mound of coins, broken glass, and twisted cutlery.

“...You have got to be joking,” he muttered, his voice deep and rumbling like distant thunder.

You ignored the disapproval in his tone. Instead you set the chair upright with a triumphant grin, water dripping from your hair in messy strands. It sat crooked and unstable on the grotto floor, but you gazed at it as if it were a throne.

Ghost’s tail stirred harder, betraying his agitation. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the scrape along your arm, the unmistakable mark of a net. “That is rotten wood. Worthless. And it nearly cost you more than you are willing to admit.”

He regarded you for a long time, black eyes unblinking. He never understood your obsession with human things. To him, they were hazards, reminders of nets and spears and engines that bled poison into the sea. You called them stories. He called them threats.

Yet as you smiled, proud of your absurd throne, Ghost felt something shift within him. He hated your recklessness. He hated the danger you brought back with you. But he could not hate the way you glowed when you returned with another trinket clutched in your hands. He could not hate the joy that lit your face even when he scolded you.

He swam closer and let his shadow fall across you. The chair creaked under your weight, but you did not falter. Ghost reached out, his scarred hand brushing against your cheek with a gentleness that surprised even him.

He didn’t understand, and he doubted he ever would.

Still, as you tilted your head back and laughed, the sound carrying like sunlight through water, Ghost felt something twist in his chest. He hated your reckless streak. He hated your obsession with the surface. He hated how easily you could be hurt.

But he loved you.

Loved you enough to stand guard at the grotto entrance, night after night. Loved you enough to put up with your hoard of junk. Loved you enough to let you keep your dangerous hobbies, as long as you came back to him alive.