Page 17 of Siren Problems
“I do,” he says, after a long beat. “Because if I don’t, people get hurt.”
The air shifts. My breath catches.
And for once, I don’t make a joke.
Instead, I sit back down and let the silence settle between us like something holy. Outside, the rain starts to slow. The tide begins to retreat. But inside, the tension’s just starting to pull tight.
Calder sits again too, this time a little closer.
Not touching.
Not yet.
But closer.
And I realize I’m not trying to crack his shell anymore.
I want to be let in.
The storm eases, the tide pulling back like it’s holding its breath. The shack groans as the wind quiets, and I exhale with it, muscles finally unclenching. Outside, waves slosh against the rocks in a tired rhythm. Not angry anymore. Just restless.
Inside, the quiet between us stretches. Not awkward. Just... full.
I glance at Calder.
He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. His brows are knit like he’s deep in thought or trying not to say something dangerous. Water beads on his jawline, catching the flicker of the emergency lantern like drops of moonlight.
“You always like being this dramatic?” I ask gently.
He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. “You think I’m dramatic?”
“You make storm clouds look subtle.”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. Just glances sideways at me with something almost—almost—like amusement.
“I’m not trying to be a mystery,” he says after a moment. “I just... don’t know how to stop being one.”
That lands deeper than I expect.
I shift, resting my arms on my knees. “I get it. I’ve been chasing magic since I was fourteen, and I still don’t know if I’m trying to understand it or prove to everyone else that I’m not crazy.”
He turns his head toward me, curiosity flickering in those sea-glass eyes. “You think people think you’re crazy?”
“People don’tsayit,” I reply, “but you start talking about ancient sea energy and aura resonances in polite academic circles and you’ll be amazed how fast someone offers you a therapy crystal and a transfer request form.”
He actually smiles. It’s small, quick, and it vanishes like mist—but Iseeit.
And damn it, I like it.
I lean back against the crate wall, watching shadows dance across the floor. “You know, for someone who hates talking, you’re weirdly good at it when you stop being an emotionally fortified shipwreck.”
“Maybe I just don’t likemostpeople.”
“Lucky me, then.”
The silence that follows is different. Charged.
Not the storm.
