Every siren has rules. Rule number one? Never let a mortal make you smile.
Lyra was already awake when the sun painted its first stroke across the sky.
She floated lazily on her back, arms spread, hair like a dark kelp cloud drifting around her. The sea cradled her gently, murmuring lullabies to the rocks. For a while, she let herself be nothing more than a creature in water. No words, no games, no cursed magic pressing down on her chest.
Just the tide. Just the endless quiet.
But quiet was short-lived when Kael was around.
"Morning," came his voice, groggy but alive with that annoying spark of optimism she hadn't asked for.
She didn't glance at him. "You're up early. Did the forest spit you out again?"
"I like the ocean air. It's easier to breathe here," Kael said, crouching near the shore with a half-made net in his lap.
Lyra flipped and swam closer, her tail flicking lazily. "You're not making another one of your fishing traps, are you?"
"I'm trying. Since someone keeps sabotaging them."
She grinned with too many teeth. "That someone sounds intelligent."
"She's a menace."
"I've been called worse."
Kael tossed a smooth stone in her direction. She ducked and let it skip past her shoulder, laughing softly. The kind of laugh he never expected to enjoy hearing—but now, looked forward to every day.
"I should warn you," Lyra said as she floated closer, voice turning mock-serious. "You're becoming routine, Kael. I don't like routines."
"Then I'll keep surprising you."
"Please don't."
He smirked. "Too late."
Their banter, light and strange, filled the morning air as the sea slowly began to wake. Gulls screamed above. Crabs chittered from hidden crevices. But for them, time didn't matter.
Kael had started mapping the coastline, a habit left over from his days tracking elk through dense woods. Now it was rocks and reefs, tidepools and shells. He marked spots where Lyra liked to sit, where the waves changed rhythm, where the water sang different songs.
"Are you drawing me?" she asked one day, peering over his shoulder.
He jumped. "No."
She arched a brow. "That's clearly my fin."
"It's a map."
"With fins."
Kael coughed. "Topographical fins."
Lyra laughed—a sharp, delighted sound that bounced off the cliffs. She rested her chin on his shoulder.
"You're very strange."
He didn't move. "You're one to talk."
"Touché."
Their proximity was dangerous, unspoken. Her breath was cool against his neck. His hand paused on the page. For a moment, neither of them breathed.
Then she pulled away.
"Rule number two," she said, her voice feather-light. "Never let a mortal touch your heart. They drop things."
Kael looked at her, and something in his chest ached. "Do you always follow your own rules?"
Lyra didn't answer. She disappeared beneath the water in one elegant dive, leaving only ripples behind.
That night, the moon lit up the cove like a secret kept too long.
Kael sat by the fire, a pot of half-burnt soup beside him, trying not to think about how quiet it was without her voice. He had started to recognize the silence in different tones. This one? Restless. Waiting.
Then came the splash.
She surfaced without grace this time, water dripping from her chin, hair tangled like sea vines. "You cook like you're punishing the ingredients," she said.
"It's edible," he said, not looking at her.
"Barely."
He handed her a seashell cup of soup. She took it. They drank side by side.
It could've been a scene from a fable. The prince and the siren. The fire and the sea.
But fables never had this tension—this biting awareness that something forbidden was happening. Something neither of them could name without shattering it.
"So what's rule number three?" he asked after a while.
She glanced at him over the rim of her shell. "Never let a mortal touch your tail."
Kael froze. "Why?"
Lyra leaned in with a smile too sly for comfort. "Because that's where we keep our secrets."
"And what if I already touched it?"
Her smile faltered.
He didn't push. He just looked at her, and she looked away.
"You didn't touch the right part," she said eventually.
He blinked. "There's a right part?"
Lyra rolled her eyes and vanished under the water again, leaving him laughing alone by the fire.
Later that week, Kael woke up to find her sunbathing on his map.
"Hey!"
"What?"
"You're wrinkling it."
"I'm improving it."
"With what? Scales?"
"Exactly."
He huffed. "You know, for someone cursed to be alone, you're awfully good at making yourself at home."
Lyra flipped onto her stomach, propping her chin in her hands. "I've been alone long enough to know how to be annoying on purpose."
He chuckled. "You're not annoying."
She blinked. "Say that again."
"You're not annoying."
"Huh." Her smile was faint. "Careful, hunter. That sounded dangerously like affection."
Kael didn't say anything. He looked at her, at the strange shimmer of her tail in the sunlight, at the way her eyes flicked to the side like she was afraid of being seen too clearly.
"You're not what I expected," he said.
She rolled onto her back. "Good."
"Why did you let me find you that day?"
"I didn't."
"But you didn't flee either."
"I was bored."
"Bored?"
"Out of my scales."
He laughed, loud and full, and she pretended it didn't make her heart skip like stones across the tide.
Every siren has rules. But sometimes, the ocean writes new ones just for you.