Page 50 of Make Out With A Merman

His throat works around the silence.

“No one’s ever done anything like this. Not for them. Not for me.”

I don’t know what to say.

So I step closer. “They’re for the kids, too. To feel safe. To see where the danger ends and the trust begins.”

He nods.

Still doesn’t speak.

His eyes are bright now, too bright for the sun just yet.

And when he turns away to blink fast, I pretend I don’t notice.

Because some grief deserves dignity.

Even when it glows.

We’re still standing by the dock, the float rings gently bobbing in the shallows, when heavy footsteps crunch behind us on the gravel.

Torack.

He’s always got the presence of a thundercloud that learned how to walk shoulders wide, arms crossed, beard braided with enough sea-stone to qualify as a small weapons cache. Obviously his daughter Lillian’s work.

He stops at the end of the dock, staring out at the glowing markers without a word.

In that low, slow rumble of his: “Did you make this?”

Ryder doesn’t hesitate. “No. She did.”

Torack’s thick brows twitch. He turns to look at me like I’ve just shapeshifted into a full-blooded trench sentinel.

I brace for sarcasm. A snort. A dad-joke about noodle glitter warfare.

Instead, he grunts.

Then, flat as dry toast: “Good job.”

I blink. “I, what?”

“Shows initiative,” he adds.

I blink harder.

Ryder smirks, just barely.

And me?

I open my mouth. Close it.

Then finally manage, “Thank you?”

Torack nods once like he’s just delivered a full emotional speech, then turns and walks back toward camp without another word.

I stare after him, stunned.

Ryder leans in, low and amused. “Speechless?”

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