“I was in shock.” Malachi swallowed, eyes fixed somewhere just past the rim of the mug. “I don’t remember what I said.” A short breathless laugh escaped him. “I almost drowned after being kidnapped by fucking fishmen.”
“Language!”
It snapped through the air before Archie could stop it. Parental autopilot—instinctive and ugly. His mug hit the table. Tea sloshed over the rim.
Malachi jolted. Not back—inwards. His shoulders caved a fraction, fingers slipping on the mug. Tea surged dangerously close to the edge.
“Fuck.” Archie dragged a hand down his face. “Sorry.” He reached across the table without thinking. Too late.
Malachi was already up. The chair scraped sharply as he stood, one hand flying to the counter to steady himself. His foot slid on the damp floor, and he caught himself with a hissed breath through clenched teeth.
At the sink, he tipped the mug out too fast. Tea splashed up the sides, catching his wrist. He didn’t react, just stood there, shoulders hunched, palms braced on the counter as if the room was moving.
“I don’t know.” The words barely made it past his throat. He swallowed and tried again, still facing the window. “It just—” His fingers curled against the edge of the counter, knuckles white.
“It reminded me of something” His shoulders hitched once, sharp and involuntary. “And I froze.”
Neither of them spoke. The kitchen seemed to wait.
“I couldn’t—” He broke off, shaking his head like he could dislodge the thought. “I couldn’t fight them off.”
“The nightmares?” Archie’s pulse quickened.
Malachi’s reflection stared back at him from the window above the sink. He went very still. Then his hands moved—fast and angry. He scrubbed the mug under the tap with more force than necessary, porcelain knocking against the metal, water splashing up his sleeves. When he was done, he flung the cloth across the kitchen without looking.
Archie caught it on instinct. He wiped the spill, slowly, to buy time he didn’t know how to use, then tossed the cloth back. Malachi caught it one-handed. A sharp sound tore out of him—half breath, half pain—as his other arm clamped to his chest. His knees dipped, just enough to betray him, before he straightened again, jaw locked tight.
Archie’s stomach twisted. There it was—the cost. Not just bruised ribs and cracked skin, but the way Malachi refused to let any of it show for longer than a heartbeat, Archie felt it like a blow of his own. He’d taught him that. Taught him to grit his teeth. To keep moving. To swallow the pain because stopping meant falling apart.
Birds shrieked past the window.
Malachi jumped so hard his shoulder clipped the cupboard door with a dull thud. He spun, eyes wild for a split second, fixed on the river beyond as if expecting hands to claw their way up the bank.
Standing there in his pyjamas, hair still damp and in desperate need of a cut, he looked so young. Eighteen, and already carrying things that would flatten men twice his age.
Archie’s chest tightened. How was Malachi meant to carry the knowledge that the things he’d been running fromin his sleep were real—and still out there? Archie had survived by becoming harder, sharper and more ruthless. He didn’t want that life for Malachi. He deserved so much more.
Malachi turned back slowly, eyes narrow. “You shot them.” His voice was steady, too steady. “With a crossbow.” He met Archie’s eyes and didn’t look away.
Archie shifted in his chair. Heat crept up his neck, prickling under his collar. He rolled his shoulders to shake it away, but it stayed.
“Where’d you get it?
Archie’s fingers curled against his thigh, forcing himself to meet Malachi’s eyes.
“It’s old.” The words tasted of dust; dryness clogged his mouth. He cleared his throat. “It’s been in our family for a long time.”
Silence pooled between them. It settled in Archie’s chest, thick and airless. He swallowed and resisted the urge to fill it with anything—a joke, a lie, an offer of more tea. Once he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. And once he stopped, there’d be no going back.
“Why’d you have it?”
Malachi’s eyes flicked around the room, landing nowhere for more than a heartbeat. Like he was searching for something just out of reach.
“You know why.” Archie’s voice was barely audible.
The river. The Selkie. The wrongness of it all. Malachi had to reach it himself—to remember, not be told. To understand that what haunted him was real, not just in his head.
“No, I don’t.” Malachi’s voice cracked, fragile and thin at the edges. “Why’d you have it?”
