Page 30 of Siren Problems

I ’ve been many things in my life—monster, myth, mistake—but I’ve never been this. Nervous. Not like this. Not the kind that coils low in the belly and thrums through your chest like a second heartbeat.

I lead Luna down to the tidepool where the ley lines hum quiet lullabies beneath the surface. It’s the same place where she first stomped into my life—bright-eyed, sarcastic, and dragging all her weird human gadgets like she owned the coastline.

Now she walks beside me, barefoot in the moonlight, and I don’t feel like the loner anymore. I feel like the luckiest bastard to ever crawl out of a cursed cove.

“You’re being weird,” she says, bumping my shoulder with hers.

“Define weird.”

“Weirder than usual. You’re brooding with purpose.”

I stop walking and let the moonlight spill between us. The water glows faintly, not with danger now, but promise. “This is where you ruined my peace and quiet.”

She grins. “You’re welcome.”

I turn to face her fully, and for once, I don’t hide behind the growl or the sarcasm. “This is also where I realized I was afraid of you. Afraid of what you’d see in me. Afraid you’d leave once you did.”

Her smile fades, softens. “And now?”

“Now I hope you never leave. Even if I have to rebuild this damn tidepool with my bare hands every year just to keep you here.”

She blinks, caught off guard. I never say this kind of thing. Hell, I’ve barely said anything about what I feel without grunting or deflecting.

But tonight’s different.

I take her hands in mine. They’re warm, familiar, calloused in a way that tells stories—of fieldwork, of magic, of resilience. “I’ve been carrying a voice I couldn’t use and a heart I couldn’t trust. You made both matter again.”

Before she can respond, I do the only thing I know that’s realer than any words I could string together.

I sing.

Just one note. One syllable.

Her name.

The water stirs. The ley lines shimmer. Something ancient and gentle hums beneath our feet, answering like it’s been waiting for this song all along.

Her breath catches, and she touches her chest like the sound hit somewhere deep.

“I’ve never heard my name like that,” she says, voice a whisper. “Like a prayer.”

“I meant it like one.”

A tear slips down her cheek, but she’s smiling too. “Damn it, Calder.”

“I know.”

She throws her arms around me, and I hold her like the sea holds the moon—tightly, reverently, like I’d drown without her.

“I love you,” she says against my chest, fierce and certain.

My throat tightens. “I’ve loved you since you stormed into my cove and called my fish-netting system medieval.”

“It was medieval.”

“And now I’d defend it to the death because it brought you here.”

She laughs through a sniffle. “Romantic and grumpy. My type.”

We settle on the tide-worn rocks, our feet dangling into glowing water. The wind tugs at her curls, and I tuck a piece behind her ear, fingertips lingering.

“So... what now?” she asks.

“Now?” I lean back, letting the salt air fill my lungs. “Now we build something that’s ours. You and me. Research, chaos, the weirdest beachside love story ever told.”

“And no more curses?”

“Only the good kind.”

She grins. “Like the one where I’m stuck with you forever?”

“Exactly like that.”

She leans in, lips brushing mine, a kiss slow and sure as the tide. When we part, she sighs and rests her head on my shoulder.

We stay there a long while—just two souls beneath a moon that’s seen centuries of heartbreak and still chooses to rise.

Tonight, the water sings not of loss, but of love.

And I let myself believe, for once, that I deserve it.

She tilts her chin up, eyes locked on mine. The smirk’s gone, replaced with something raw and open. Her lips part like she’s about to say something cutting or clever, but instead she just breathes, “Come here.”

I do.

The moment her mouth meets mine, it’s different. Not hurried like the first time. Not desperate like the second. This kiss is still, rooted. The kind you plant in the soil of your soul and wait to grow into forever.

Her hands come up, fingers threading into my hair, and I swear the whole damn ocean exhales.

Around us, the tidepool brightens—tiny sparks dotting the surface like stars falling into the sea.

It’s not magic, not really. Or maybe it is, but the kind that doesn’t come from spells or ley lines.

The kind that comes from love—simple, inconvenient, undeniable love.

“I think I could live in this moment,” she whispers against my lips, voice trembling like she’s surprised by how much she means it.

I brush my forehead against hers, eyes closed. “Then let’s make a thousand more like it.”

Behind us, Lowtide Bluffs is quiet, windows glowing warm in the distance. The night wraps around the town like a well-worn storybook—full of weird chapters, strange characters, and a plot twist no one saw coming.

Luna looks out toward the sea, her body still curled against mine, and says, “Do you think the sea remembers?”

“Remembers what?”

“All of it. The singing. The sorrow. The storm.”

I glance at the water, still pulsing with faint light. “I think it remembers what matters.”

“And do we?”

I turn to her, brushing my knuckles along her cheek. “We write the next verse.”

She snorts, tears bright in her eyes. “You just quoted yourself like a washed-up sea bard.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I’ve called you worse.”

“And you’ll keep doing it,” I murmur, grinning. “But now you’re stuck with me.”

She nods, and something settles in her shoulders—like she’s finally decided to stop running from the thing that terrifies her most: happiness.

We stay like that, tangled together as the tide creeps in, lapping around our ankles. She starts humming, and I join her, letting the melody drift into the sky. Our voices twine and twist, not siren-strong or perfect, but true.

In the distance, gulls cry softly, and a fish breaches, silvery scales catching moonlight.

Luna breaks the silence. “Calder?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve never had a home before.”

I look down at her. “You do now.”

She kisses me again, fierce and final, like a signature on the last page of a book we’ve rewritten together.

And when the wind shifts, carrying salt and sea and something like joy, we don’t let go.

We just hold on tighter.

Because the tide’s no longer pulling us apart.

It’s pulling us forward.

Together.