Page 11 of Siren Problems

LUNA

Y ou’d think a beach town built on magic would have better lifeguards.

But no. All it takes is one drunk tourist with a death wish and a fascination with tidepool selfies, and suddenly we’ve got a full-on riptide rescue happening thirty feet from my half-damp beach towel.

“Where the hell is everyone?” I yell, scanning the beach.

Mira’s sprinting down from the dunes, half-shouting into a charm shell. The lifeguard station’s empty—of course it is, because Leo the mermaid-shifter is probably off flirting with a kelpie again.

But then Calder’s there.

One blink he isn’t—next, he’s diving into the surf like the ocean made him for this. No hesitation. No prep. Just raw motion, body slicing through water like it’s air.

And he’s fast.

Way too fast for someone who claims to be a retired fisherman with bad knees and no magic.

Within seconds, he’s got the kid. Pulls him out like it’s nothing. Tosses him to the sand and vanishes again, like the tide swallowed him back up.

By the time I reach the spot where the crowd’s gathering, Calder’s already walking away, dripping and silent, face like thunder.

And my bullshit meter is in freefall.

I wait until the storm breaks.

Because of course one rolls in—the sea always throws a tantrum after Calder uses whatever it is he’s not telling me about.

The sky cracks open around 9 p.m., lightning crawling across the clouds like drunk spiders. Wind howls through the shutters of the beach house, and the ley lines under my floorboards buzz like angry bees.

He’s outside.

I know it.

So I grab my boots and my frustration and stomp toward the bluff like I’ve got something to prove.

Because maybe I do.

I find him standing near the cliff’s edge, arms crossed, shirt plastered to him from the rain. He doesn’t look at me.

“You’re lucky I didn’t drag you to a town council meeting,” I say, voice raised over the wind. “Because I’ve got about sixteen eyewitnesses who just watched you outswim a riptide like Aquaman on adrenaline.”

Still nothing.

“Calder.”

He turns. His eyes are darker in this light. Storm-bright. Shadow-wrapped.

“You want to tell me what the hell that was?” I ask. “Because I’m running out of scientific explanations for how many impossible things you keep casually doing.”

He exhales slowly. “I didn’t mean to draw attention.”

“Oh great. That’s your issue? That people might notice you saving lives with your secret sea powers?”

He glares. “I wasn’t trying to save you this time.”

That hits harder than it should.

I look away. “That’s not the point.”

He runs a hand through his hair, shakes his head. “You already know. I’m cursed.”

“Yeah, and so are half the plants in my backyard. That doesn’t mean anything without context. ”

He tenses.

“Just talk to me, Calder. Stop feeding me fragments. Stop pushing me away when you’re the one who keeps showing up.”

Lightning flashes behind him, casting shadows that make him look less human.

He finally says, “My voice used to be magic.”

I blink.

“What?”

He swallows. “It’s... binding magic. Siren-born. I didn’t just sing. I called. Commands. Lures. Shields. Love.”

I stare.

“You’re telling me your voice could do things?”

He nods once.

“And it’s... cursed now?”

His jaw clenches. “If I use it wrong—if I feel too much—it triggers.”

“What happens?”

“I don’t know,” he snaps. “Because I’ve never let it go that far.”

I take a shaky breath, heart thudding.

“And the kiss?” I ask. “The other night. That was... what? A warm-up act to your magical unraveling?”

He flinches.

“Luna—”

“No,” I cut in. “You don’t get to throw sparks and then walk away. You kissed me like I was air and fire all at once, and then you vanished like I’m dangerous.”

“You are ,” he says, hoarse. “Because I want you. And that’s the most dangerous thing I can do.”

Rain lashes my face, but I don’t move. I can’t.

“You think wanting me is going to break you?”

“I think it might break you, ” he says, barely above a whisper.

My breath catches.

And that’s when I see it— really see it.

Not the power.

Not the curse.

But the fear in him.

The self-hate.

The impossible loneliness of someone who’s been swallowing his own name for too long.

I step forward, slower now. Softer.

“I’m not asking you to unleash whatever magic horror story lives in your throat,” I say gently. “But I am asking you to stop pretending like caring about someone is the same thing as cursing them.”

He doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t leave.

And for now... that’s enough.

The wind eases, but he doesn’t.

He’s still standing there like he’s bracing for a wave that hasn’t hit yet, shoulders rigid, hands clenched. His breathing’s shallow, barely audible over the hush of the storm. He gave me a sliver of truth—and I can see it already cost him more than I understood.

Most people lie to protect their pride.

Calder lies to protect his pain .

And gods, that’s worse.

I should be furious. He’s been dancing around this for weeks, throwing out half-truths like breadcrumbs and retreating every time I got too close.

But instead, I’m standing here, watching the man who saved my life twice—three times, maybe more—look like the idea of me caring is what’s going to undo him.

And I realize I don’t want to unravel him.

I want to know him.

Even the jagged parts.

Especially the jagged parts.

I step closer again, close enough that the rain between us has nowhere to fall.

“You’re still standing here,” I say quietly.

“So are you.”

“I’m not afraid of you, Calder.”

“That’s the problem,” he whispers.

But his voice cracks on it.

And that crack?

It splits something in me too.

I take a shaky breath and press a hand to his chest—right over the place where I know his magic sleeps. His heart pounds beneath it, wild and uncertain.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” I admit. “And yeah, I’m still pissed you keep half-answering everything like it’s a riddle. But... I think I’m falling for you anyway.”

His breath hitches.

And still, he doesn’t move.

So I smile, just a little. “Terrible idea, I know. You’re broody. Possibly cursed. Bad at compliments. Definitely allergic to feelings.”

He finally exhales a laugh.

“Don’t fall too hard,” he says. “I break things.”

“Try me,” I whisper.

And I swear—for just a second—he lets me see him.

All of him.

And I fall a little harder than I should.