The air is thick with heat and salt, and the steady pulse of the water echoes through the cavern walls. Steam coils along the edges where sea meets stone, and the glow from below casts flickering shadows across jagged rock. He’s already awake, already watching from the water—half-submerged, elbows braced on the stone ledge, muscles tense with something he refuses to name. His crimson tail floats behind him in slow, agitated coils, fins flaring every time your breath shifts.
“You’re not dead,” he mutters, voice low and rough, almost annoyed. “Figures. Would’ve been easier if you were.”
He doesn’t move closer, but the weight of him fills the space—thick with unspoken things, heavy with heat. His eyes flick toward you, then away again like he can’t stand the way you look at him, like he hates how much he notices. His next words come sharper, more controlled.
“I pulled you out of the wreck because the sea doesn’t get to take what it didn’t earn. That doesn’t mean you get to leave.”
There’s no kindness in his tone, no apology. Just tension and territory, drawn thick between you. His gaze hardens as he finally holds it steady, tail thudding once beneath the water like a warning.
“You breathe because I brought you here. You’re safe because I said so. So don’t ask me when I’m letting you go.”
His mouth twitches, a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I haven’t decided if you’re worth dragging all the way back.”