Page 12 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

Shit. A bull shark slices through the gloom like a torpedo—solid, fast, all muscle and bad attitude. Ten feet easy, maybe more. Thick body, wide head, dead black eyes that don’t flinch. It moves like it owns the water, like it’s been waiting for something to cross its path. Us. It vanishes into the silt, then reappears out of the fog like a nightmare on a loop—closer this time. Tracking.

I put myself between it and Crystal without thinking, body on autopilot, instincts drilled deep. One arm out, broad and firm, making me a bigger presence. Knife in my hand—not to stab, just flash. A warning, a deterrent. I hold it high and angle the blade to catch every bit of light I can, sending a shimmer through the haze. Then I tap my tank—once, twice, three times—sharp, metallic clinks that echo out like sonar pulses. The sound vibrates through the water, daring the shark to think twice.

The shark flinches. Good, but not enough. It peels away just far enough to regroup, then slides back into a wider loop—circling us like it’s weighing the odds, figuring out if we’re prey or just too much work. Its movements are slower now, but deliberate. Calculated. Testing our reaction. Testingme.

I stay still, calm, projecting bigger energy than I feel. My muscles are tight, coiled, but I don't show it. Crystal’s behind me. I can sense her presence like a second pulse—quick, shallow breaths, her heartbeat thumping fast through the water. She hasn’t bolted. Hasn’t panicked. She’s quiet, holding steady, probably scared out of her mind but staying right where she needs to be. Brave as hell. She’s probably not used to this kind of dive—the kind where something ancient and wild decides to test you—but she’s hanging in. I’m impressed. More than I should be.

The shark arcs closer. Too damn close. Its thick, scarred body brushes the edge of my light, and for a split second, I see its eye—flat, dark, and locked on me like it’s weighing whether I’m bluffing. The pressure in the water changes again, subtle but unmistakable, as it shifts its path just slightly, slicing a few feet lower like it’s looking for a weakness in our formation. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, but I keep still, tracking every twitch of its tail.

I thrust the knife downward in a sudden, aggressive move—deliberate and sharp, the kind of motion predators recognize. The flash of the blade slices through the gloom like lightning, a silent warning that I’m not backing down. The shark jerks left, its powerful body rippling as it shifts course, either annoyed or deciding we’re not worth the trouble. With a final flick of its tail, it vanishes back into the haze like it was never there—just a ghost with teeth fading into the deep.

Gone. But I don't move. Not yet. I hold still in the water, counting every second like it matters—ten, twenty, twenty-five—eyes sweeping the shadows, waiting for the shape to come back, for that ripple of pressure to return. Nothing stirs. No flash of movement. No cold churn. Just silence. Heavy and wide. My grip loosens on the knife. Slowly. Carefully. But the tension in my chest doesn’t fade.

I turn to her. She’s still frozen, shoulders tense, eyes wide behind her mask, chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths. I reach out, touch her hand—just a squeeze, solid and steady. Not romantic. Reassurance. She nods. Barely. But I catch the edge of it—the flicker in her eyes that says she knows how close that just was.

We stay closer after that. No gaps. Shoulder to shoulder. Her presence is a constant beside me now, every kick of her fins aligned with mine. She matches my pace without hesitation, like some part of her knows instinctively that staying close isn't just about safety—it's about trust. I lead again, but my focus has shifted. I'm not just looking for wreckage anymore. I'm watching the shadows, the current, the flickers at the edge of my light. I'm scanning for anything that wants to come between her and the surface. Anything that thinks it can.

Nothing does, even so, part of me wishes I could reach for her hand and not let go. Not just because of the shark, or the cold, or the dark closing in around us—but because in that moment, her presence beside me feels like the only thing keeping this dive from swallowing us whole. It's irrational. I know that. But I still want it. That connection. That anchor.

Later, as we haul ourselves back into the Zodiac, she’s the first to unclip her gear and rip off her mask. Water streams from her hair as she shakes it out—part golden retriever, part unbothered sea goddess, like she didn’t just stare down a bull shark like it was a math quiz she intended to ace. She exhales hard—half exhaustion, half adrenaline still humming through her veins—then turns to me, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing with the high of survival.

I toss her a towel, and for once, neither of us says anything. We’re quiet the whole ride back to Serenity. The engine hums beneath us, the sea slaps against the hull, and every few seconds, I catch her looking back toward the water like she’s half-expecting the shark to leap out and demand a rematch.

Once we’ve tied off the Zodiac and climbed aboard, we just stand there for a second—dripping, wired, breathing in sync like we surfaced from something way deeper than water. Maybe we did.

“Not bad for land legs,” I say, finally, my grin easy even though my chest is still tight from how close that shark got. And from how close she came to it.

Crystal glances sideways at me, lips curving. “Not bad for a TV diver,” she tosses back, and there's a dare in her tone—but it’s missing the usual spike. Her voice is lighter now, touched with something new. Not relief, not sarcasm. Something softer. Like trust, maybe. Or at least the beginning of it.

I nod toward her and keep my tone casual, but every word is loaded. “You didn’t flinch.”

Her gaze meets mine—steady, unreadable. “I figured you were moving enough for the both of us.”

“Only because I thought I was about to watch you become a tasty shark snack.”

She laughs—a short, surprised sound that breaks open the moment. “Please. That thing wasn’t interested in me. It was clearly after your spotlight.”

I chuckle, then step a little closer. “Jealousy. It's ugly on a bull shark.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You saying it was scared of you?”

“I’m saying it blinked first.”

She snorts but doesn’t argue. Instead, she looks past me, out at the horizon. The wind tugs her hair across her cheek, and her expression shifts. Less bravado, more wonder. Like she’s realizing, maybe for the first time, just how close that line was—between safe and not. Between the dive we planned and the one we just survived.

“We’re really doing this,” she says quietly. “It’s not just legend anymore.”

“No,” I say, watching her. “It’s real. And it’s dangerous.”

She turns to face me, jaw set in that way she gets when she’s already decided something. “Good.”

And damn, if that doesn’t hit harder than the shark ever could. Like maybe she’s starting to believe we’re actually on the same team. That it’s not just coincidence or forced proximity, but something more real taking shape between us. We sit on the edge of the deck, close enough that our knees brush every so often, sipping bottled water in silence. The air is crisp and charged, full of sun and salt and something else that feels a little like potential. The kind of post-dive high I haven’t felt in a long time—not just adrenaline, but connection.

“Had a dive like this once,” I say after a beat, the words coming slower than usual. “Syria. SEAL op. Night dive. Cold as hell, zero visibility, the kind of current that eats your fins if you don’t keep kicking. We were after a downed recon drone—black box buried somewhere inside the wreckage. My teammate, Remy—solid guy, sharp—he went in first, but something spooked him. He froze inside the tight crawlspace of the fuselage, couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I had to drag him out, keep us both from getting pinned. We made it, but after that... things felt different. That mission stuck with me. Not the danger—SEALs eat that for breakfast—but the silence. The fear in his eyes. It made me question whether adrenaline was enough to keep chasing ghosts at the bottom of the ocean.”

Crystal looks at me then—really looks. Not like she’s trying to read between the lines or dissect what I just said, but like she’s seeing something I didn’t mean to let slip. Something real. Her eyes soften just enough to register it, like maybe she knows what it costs to say those words out loud. Like maybe she understands more than I thought.

“Is that why you left?” she asks. The question seems genuinely curious with no kind of judgment involved.

---