Caught, Not Saved
The sea was too calm.
Shin didn’t like calm—it made his instincts itch. Calm meant something was about to go wrong. Or already had. So, when his lookout shouted, “Man overboard!” and the crew spotted a shape tangled in seaweed, Shin figured the sea had finally made its move.
Again.
He dove in without thinking. The crew shouted, and someone cursed about sharks, but Shin only had eyes for the figure drifting below the surface, her hair a cloud of dark ink, her arms limp, her skin too pale. He wrapped his arms around her and kicked upward, the salt burning his eyes and filling his mouth with metal. She wasn’t heavy, but she was cold. Unmoving. And she clutched a smooth, pinkish shell to her chest like it was her heart.
Back on deck, he collapsed beside her, panting. She didn’t breathe. Until she did—choking, gasping, water pouring from her mouth in a rush, her back arched. Her eyes snapped open. Sea-glass green and furious.
Then she punched him.
Straight to the jaw.
“Ow,” Shin said flatly, fingers on his lip. “You’re welcome, I guess?”
“Why do I have legs?!” she shrieked.
The crew froze. One guy dropped a mop.
Shin blinked. “Because… evolution?”
She sat up, hair soaked, clothes clinging, and eyes blazing. The shell was still clutched in her hand like a weapon. “Put me back.”
“Into the sea?”
“Yes.”
“You just nearly died.”
“Then you should’ve let me.”
Shin tilted his head. “Do you always wake up swinging and dramatic, or am I special?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You smell like salt and audacity.”
He grinned. “It’s my signature blend.”
Once clothed in something that wasn’t a soggy linen blanket, Korrin stormed around the deck like she owned it. Or wanted to set it on fire. She was barefoot, wild-haired, and entirely unimpressed by every rope, barrel, or man aboard. Shin couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“Where am I?” she snapped, eyeing the crew like she expected mutiny.
“Aboard the Seabird,” Shin answered, leaning casually against the railing. “Captain Shin, at your annoyed service.”
She squinted at the sails. “Is this a joke? Are you real pirates or just cosplayers with too much boat?”
“You say that like cosplay is an insult,” he murmured. “We plunder. We smuggle. We drink irresponsibly. I think we qualify.”
She pointed a finger at him. “If anyone touches me, I’ll gut them.”
“Duly noted,” Shin replied, raising both hands.
He wasn’t sure what fascinated him more—her presence, or how his crew, rough as they were, immediately took to her like she was a storm mascot. Someone handed her dried fish. She ate it. Raw.
“Are you sure you’re not a mermaid?” he asked, half-joking.
“Are you sure you’re not delusional?”
He laughed. “You look like the girl from my dreams.”
She snorted. “And you look like someone who mistakes alcohol poisoning for prophecy.”
Still, that night, when the ship had settled and the sea whispered soft through the planks, she curled up near the stove in his cabin, hair still damp, shell still in hand. Her breathing slowed, but her brow stayed furrowed like she was fighting waves only she could see.
Shin didn’t tell her. But he dreamed too as always, dreaming the same face her, for the longest time since he started sailing the sea.
She was in the water again. But this time, she smiled.
And this time, he swam closer.
