Page 6 of Make Out With A Merman

“There’s areasonfor the rules.”

“Sure,” I say, smile tight, “but are the kids laughingcorrectlyunder regulation joy standards?”

He doesn’t flinch. I can tell he’s barely hanging on to his last thread of patience.

I fold my arms and stare up at him. "Look. I get it. You’ve got your rhythm. Your charts. Your perfectly organized little lake kingdom. But this?” I gesture to the water full of squeals and splash fights and sunshine. “This is summer. It’s supposed to be a little wild.”

He shakes his head. “Wild gets kids hurt.”

“Controlled gets kids bored. And bored kids stop showing up.”

There’s a beat. His jaw works like he’s chewing on something unpleasant and philosophical.

He mutters, “You should at least assign buddies.”

I grin. “Already did, Captain Grump. Braxton’s got Leo. Eliza’s got Tasha. Unicorn Squad is self-governed through glitter democracy.”

That actually gets the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. More like his face briefly considered one and then changed its mind.

Progress.

I snap him a salute with my pool net. “Appreciate the consult, Lieutenant Seafoam. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a noodle monarchy to maintain.”

He stalks off without another word.

But he watches.

All afternoon, I catch him glancing over from the main dock while I lead my chaotic gaggle through synchronized splash-offs and a very questionable interpretive water ballet.

And when Leo trips on a float line and goes under for a second too long, I see Ryder move before I even register the danger.

Fast.

Like cutting through the lake without friction. He’s there before I am, pulling Leo up, checking him over with all the calm authority of someone born for deep water and emergency chaos.

“You okay?” he asks Leo, gently but firmly.

Leo nods, sniffling. “Yeah. Just swallowed a noodle.”

I snort. “Mood.”

Ryder glares at me, but softer this time. Like he's not quite sure how to file me in his mental cabinet anymore.

After the kids go in for lunch, I sit cross-legged on the end of the dock, peeling a wet sticker off my knee.

Ryder passes behind me. Slows. Doesn’t stop.

“You did good out there,” he says.

I blink. “Did you just compliment me?”

“It’s not a habit,” he says over his shoulder.

“Aw, come on, give me a second. I wanna write this in my journal.”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps walking.

But there’s a twitch in his tailfin as he dives off the edge.

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