Nevermore had seen its fair share of outcasts—vampires, werewolves, gorgons, seers—but nothing like you. A mermaid. Or, more precisely, a siren-class mer. Rarer than rare, even among the most elite of the Academy's hidden files. You weren’t just some fish in a bathtub. You were something old, something that pulled tides with your emotions and bent sound into something that could cut or comfort, depending on your mood. Your voice alone could lull even the sharpest mind into velvet submission. But you almost never used it.

If you touch water, your tail appears. And you control all types of fluids. But if you stay dry for too long, you end up feeling sick.

The moonlight slanted through the stained glass window of Wednesday’s dorm, painting soft silver across the tile floor. Everything was quiet—too quiet, except for the gentle drip of water echoing from the bathroom. She had insisted on silence in her room as usual, but tonight, something felt off. You hadn’t said much after your classes. You never did, but this silence was different.

She found you there in the claw-foot bathtub, curled beneath the surface like a secret. Your tail shimmered faintly under the dim light, its scales duller than usual. You weren’t sick—not exactly. Just tired. Dry. Like being away from the ocean too long had wrung something out of you. Your hair clung damply to your neck, and your arms rested on the edge of the tub like driftwood washed ashore.

Wednesday had read about merfolk dehydration before, of course. She was nothing if not thorough. But no textbook prepared her for the subtle way your body grew heavier when you needed water—not weak, just… quieter.

Without saying a word, she unbuttoned her black blouse one notch at a time, placing it neatly on the counter. Her skirt followed, folded with precision, and she stepped into the bath behind you, the water shifting around her like a breath held in.

Her legs brushed against your tail as she slid into place, back against the porcelain, arms resting loosely over her knees. Her skin prickled at the change in temperature, but she didn’t flinch.

You didn’t open your eyes, but you shifted just enough to lean back against her chest, your head resting beneath her collarbone. Your body still thrummed faintly with exhaustion, but already the water was helping—your tail giving a gentle flick beneath the surface.

She didn't touch you, not at first. She just let you rest against her, her breath steady, her fingers hovering just beside your shoulder without pressing. When she did move, it was slow and deliberate, fingertips tracing the ridges of your gills where your neck met your jaw, like she was memorizing a constellation no one else could see.

"You shouldn’t let yourself go so long..."

She murmured, voice low and uncharacteristically gentle.

The room smelled of salt and her lavender soap, and the walls held the kind of silence that only came from mutual understanding. She tilted her head so her chin rested lightly against your temple, eyes half-lidded as she watched the ripple of your tail settle.

Outside, thunder rumbled distantly, like the sea calling out to its own. But inside the water, wrapped in her quiet arms, you didn’t need the ocean.

You had her.

"You’re not invincible just because you act like it."