“You don’t remember,” I say quietly, tears blurring my vision. “None of it?”
His silence confirms it.
“So you don’t remember helping me,” I continue, my voice steadier than I feel. “You don’t remember gifting me that dress.Or when you pulled me from the depths when I was drowning. You don’t remember holding me that night, when I found out about the curse.”
His gaze drops to my throat, then to my mouth, as if searching for something he can’t quite grasp.
“I remember how it felt,” he says after a moment. “Like a dream you cannot remember after you wake. I knew my shadow reached out to you, so I tried to keep my distance, tried to keep it from slipping away. But I failed. I know I failed because in the last few weeks, I only remember the moments I spent with you.”
My chest tightens. He doesn’t remember. If what he’s saying is true, and he can’t remember the moments I spent with his shadow, that changes… everything. The sting in my heart eases a little, then becomes worse again. Not because of anger, but because I am sorry for him. I can’t imagine what it felt like to see the emerald dress on me and not remember giving it to me, only to realize it must have been his own shadow. Or to watch me learn about the curse and only recall the feeling of holding me in his arms.
“On that beach,” he continues. “When you asked me about the curse, my shadow slipped away. I don't remember what I said or did to you, Eryse. That’s why I came to check on you, to make sure you were okay. Do you know what it’s like? To lose your memory, lose yourself?”
A knot tightens in my throat as I swallow against it. I don’t. But I know what it’s like to lose control over yourself. To become something you don’t recognize.
I step closer again, drawn in despite myself, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the tension in the way he holds himself so carefully still.
“You could’ve told me,” I say, quieter now. “Could’ve trusted me. You truly think I can handle my own monster, and cursesand hunters, but not you and yours? We could’ve carried that pain together, Sable.”
“I know,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry, Eryse. You were still my captive when you first met my shadow, and I couldn’t tell you then. But then…”
My breath falters. This is the first time either of us acknowledges that somehow, in between maelstroms, dances in taverns, and siren encounters on hidden little beaches, something between us has changed. That he’s maybe even more than a friend.
“Then?”
His hand lifts, then hesitates, hovering near my arm as if he doesn’t trust himself to touch me. The restraint in the gesture makes my breathing come in shallow waves.
“Then I started seeing you differently,” he says. “I saw your pain, who you are behind those glistening scales. I saw how you started to care about me, about the crew. I knew that if you ever found out, you wouldn’t keep your distance. You would try to save me, so I didn’t tell you. I was trying to protect you,” he says in a low voice, and his finger presses briefly against his chest. “From me.”
Biting my lip, I turn his words over. Maybe he’s right. I would’ve gone after him, would’ve made sure he’s not alone whenever his shadow slipped away. But that choice should’ve been mine.
I shake my head. “It’s not up to you to decide what I need protecting from. That’s not your burden.”
Something in his expression breaks, just slightly. His breath stutters, and the atmosphere in the space between us feels charged and dangerous and fragile.
“You don’t understand what I become,” he says. “The fate I am facing.”
“I’ve seen it,” I reply. “Last night. And I’m still here.”
His eyes darken, something conflicted flashing through them. It must be hard for him, not remembering what he did and said to me.
“You sent me away, Sable. You didn’t just toss me overboard,” I continue, my breathing heavier now. “Even with your shadow gone, you recognized me. I don’t think you would’ve hurt me.”
He looks away, out toward the open, calm sea. He swallows, then knits his brows together, as if he has a hard time believing what I am saying. I hesitate, then reach for his hand. His fingers are rough against my skin, but I don’t mind. Not even the slightest.
“I trust you,” I whisper and brush my thumb over the back of his hand, reassuring him that I won’t leave.
Not now.
Not ever.
“You shouldn’t,” he says and abruptly turns toward me again, the sunlight catching in his grey eyes. His chest rises faster now, tension coiled through him, his free hand clenched at his side. But he doesn’t remove my hand from his. Instead, he threads his fingers through mine, and it feels as if a thousand little waves are breaking against the shore of my heart.
“Then do something that makes me leave,” I say, lifting my chin as I meet his gaze. Truthfully, I am not sure what he could do that would actually make me leave. And from the intensity of his stare, he might come to the same conclusion. His gaze drops briefly to our joined hands, then lifts again. I follow it, my pulse stuttering again at the sight of his fingers laced with mine. When his tongue drags slowly over his lips, my eyes lift to his mouth, and I forget how to breathe.
He doesn’t make me leave.
Instead, he closes the last inch of space between us. The air feels tight and charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. I should pull back. I should say something else.
