Page 36 of Make Out With A Merman

The rain starts as a drizzle, a gentle patter that turns the air misty and gray. I’m scooping up a pile of rubber ducks, my sneakers sinking into the wet sand of the pond’s edge, when Ryder’s voice slices through the damp breeze.

“We need to move.”

I straighten, squinting. “Yeah, it’s raining. But they’re called raincoats for a reason, right?”

His expression stays flat. “This isn’t a rainstorm. It’s a monsoon.”

As if on cue, thunder rumbles in the distance, low and ominous. Shadows spill across the pond’s surface, the water turning the silvery color of storm clouds churning overhead.

I scrub through my hair, frizz already forming at my temples. “Great. My first disaster of the day and it’s got special effects.”

Ryder snorts, but it’s not amused. It’s edgy. Tense. His eyes dart toward the water, then back to me. “Shelter. Now.”

He doesn’t wait for me to agree or argue. Just grabs me by the wrist and starts hauling us toward a crooked little hut halfway up the beach, its wooden sign that once read “BOAT SHACK” now half-rubbed away by wind and time.

Lightning splits the sky, the sudden flash of white illuminating the pond, turning the beach bone-pale. The wind howls through the pines at our backs, spraying needles like confetti.

I glance over my shoulder, but the pond is already blurred behind a curtain of rain or something else, something thicker, grayer, like mist with teeth.

When we reach the boat shack, Ryder shoves the door open so hard it skitters against its rusty hinges, and practically flings me inside.

Then he slams the door shut just as the storm hits its first real blast and not a second too soon, because the rain comes down in sheets so thick and heavy they could drown a fish.

The air inside the shack is musty, but warm and surprisingly dry. I lean against the doorway, brushing rainwater from my arms and hair, the shivers already starting.

Ryder mutters under his breath, rummaging in a dusty corner and tossing me a slightly moth-eaten blanket. “Here. You’re soaked.”

I catch it, the fabric scratchy against my chilled skin. “So are you.”

He shoots me a dry look. “Fish don’t get cold.”

“But don’t you get, like, mad scales when you dry out?” I say, wrapping the blanket around me with a shiver. My hair is plastered to my forehead, frizz starting to bloom like a cloud of red thunder above my eyes.

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t take the bait. “Merfolk don’t dry out. We’re not actual fish.”

I do appreciate biology lessons. But right now, with the storm swirling outside and the air inside the shack getting thicker by the second, I’m more focused on the way his silver eyes are lingering and how my heart skips, just a little, because he hasn’t looked away yet.

“I think this is the first time you’ve ever been nice to me,” I blurt.

He inclines his head, brow arching. “Taking shelter isn’t nice. It’s logical.”

“Oh, you have logic now?”

“I always did.” He leans against the wall, watching me as I peel my wet shirt away from my skin uncomfortably. “You’ve just been too busy breaking my rules to notice.”

“Right. Because your rules are so important,” I shoot back, reflexively defensive. The banter covers up the tension, the charge in the air. “More important than keeping campers alive,” I add sarcastically.

His expression darkens, and he straightens, the muscles in his bare arms tightening. “They are.”

The admission hangs between us for a beat, pregnant with something heavy. Then, quietly:

“They have to be.”

He’s closer now. Too close. My heart pounds against my ribcage, wild and traitorous, as I tilt my chin to meet his gaze. “Or what? The sky falls?”

His fingers brush against my cheek, startling in its tenderness. “Yeah. Or that.”

The world narrows to the space between us, heat simmering as he leans in, slow and measured, giving me time to pull away.

---