Page 87 of Siren Problems
Except now Lyle’s twirling dramatically with a dryad who appeared out of nowhere, her bark-slick dress shimmering with moss. “We’re getting married,” he announces mid-spin, holding up an enchanted ring of coral like it’s a trophy. “She loves my cocktails and my commitment issues.”
The dryad smiles, unbothered. “I like his chaos. It’s very nutritious.”
“Lowtide marriages aren’t legally binding after midnight,” Kai calls. “But if you consummate it in the tide shack, we all owe Mira five gold.”
Mira chokes on her drink. “Why am I always the one with bets I don’t remember making?!”
In the midst of it all, Calder climbs a barstool like it might fight him for dominance, holding up a simple glass of amber sea-aged whiskey. The bar quiets. He doesn’t yell—he doesn’t have to.
“To Luna,” he says, voice steady. “The storm who taught the sea how to stay. The chaos I didn’t know I needed. The voice that broke my silence.”
My throat knots, heat rising behind my eyes.
He looks at me like I’m the center of the world. “You didn’t just save me. You made me want to be saved.”
The entire bar erupts into howls, clinks, toasts, and two pixies start throwing confetti that definitely wasn’t there before.
I smile through it all, heart pounding with joy so bright it’s almost hard to hold.
Because this—this beautiful, ridiculous, magical mess—is mine.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
CHAPTER 30
CALDER
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 afraidof 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.
