Page 53 of Claimed By the Deep
"Stay there a bit longer," she suggests. "The water helps you, doesn't it?"
"Yes, though it's cooling." I remain in the tub, appreciating her concern for my comfort. "Perhaps we could refresh it?"
She nods, turning the faucet to add more warm water. As the tub refills, she settles on its edge, her expression growing serious. "This isn't sustainable, is it? These stolen moments, these compromises. Neither of us can truly thrive this way."
"No." The simple acknowledgment carries the weight of our impossible situation. "My brief time on land demonstrates the limitations of adaptation. And your livelihood requires connections to the human world that I cannot safely share."
"So we need a better solution." She trails her fingers through the fresh warm water. "A way for us to be together that doesn't require you to dehydrate on land or me to grow gills."
Despite the serious subject, I smile at the mental image. "That would be preferable, yes."
"I've been thinking about it all week. What if we had a place that was neither fully land nor fully sea? A space that could accommodate both our needs without forcing either of us to exist primarily in the other's environment?"
Her question sparks my interest. "What sort of space?"
"A houseboat," she says, excitement brightening her voice. "But not just any houseboat. A custom design with underwater access that would let you enter directly from the ocean into a water-filled space within the boat itself."
The concept captivates me instantly. "A mobile home that could relocate as needed. To warmer water where we could swim together without endangering you."
"Exactly." She leans forward, clearly having given this considerable thought. "We could move between different coastal areas depending on weather or salvage opportunities. I could maintain my business connections through Fergus while we operate from locations less likely to draw attention."
"This could work," I admit, genuine hope rising for the first time since the researchers arrived. The concept is elegantly simple yet perfect.
The water has cooled, and I feel the limitations of this temporary accommodation. As comfortable as the bath has been, it cannot sustain me indefinitely.
Meri perceives this without my needing to say it. "You need to get back to the ocean. Real water, not this tepid puddle."
"Unfortunately, yes." I rise from the tub, water streaming from my form. "But I'll carry this houseboat idea with me until we meet again."
"Me too." She hands me a towel, excitement lighting her eyes. "I already have so many ideas."
"What are you thinking about?" Meri asks, noticing my distraction as she helps me dress.
"Possibility," I answer truthfully. "A concept I had largely abandoned until meeting you."
Her hands pause, vulnerability flashing across her face. "I've never been anyone's possibility before."
"You are many things to me that I never expected to find in this world." I touch her face, still marveling at the simple intimacy of contact after decades without it. "The houseboat represents more than practical accommodation. It represents hope."
For nearly a century, I have been a watcher, an observer, a being caught between worlds. Now, because of one remarkable human woman, I face the possibility of becoming something else entirely.
A partner. A creator. A being with a future beyond mere survival.
Not just surviving. But living.
Meridian
TWENTY FOUR
I've been staring at Fergus's number on my phone for twenty minutes, rehearsing a conversation doomed to go off the rails. How exactly does one casually mention their diving partner is an alien who's been living in Earth's oceans for nearly a century?
The research vessel Horizon remains anchored in the harbor, its crew of scientists methodically searching local waters. Twice this week I've spotted their submersible drone prowling near my usual salvage sites. Yesterday, Brian Donovan cornered me at the diner, firing questions about water temperature anomalies and electromagnetic readings in areas where I've been diving.
We're running out of time and options.
I hit dial before I can chicken out.
"Tidewash Antiques," Fergus answers on the third ring, his voice as familiar as my boat engine's rumble.
