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The fuzzy blanket of alcohol wears off, and I try to comfort myself with the pillows and sheets that feel too silky and smell too clean. I crave soft, worn-in fabrics and familiarity.

“Are you coming?” I whisper to my pendant.

“I’m sharing a tent,” Zephyr answers. “It might seem suspicious if I disappear.”

The windows creak from the cold air.

I shouldn’t be complaining. It’s freezing out there.

I can’t fall asleep, but at least I can huddle in the warm bed until the morning.

Thoughts of the ocean start to settle enough for me to relax into my pillow when I feel a vibration against my sternum and hear the thump of Zephyr’s sword belt hitting the floor.

The bed sinks behind me, and they pull me to them.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” I say, wiggling my rump deeper into the notch of their legs.

“I slipped out of my tent for a nighttime walk.” Their nose presses against my hair. “I had to see you and make sure you’re ok with what happened.”

I turn around in their arms to face them. “That’s the thing—I don’t know what happened. My grandmother and my sisters had a plan, and no one told me about it. What if they had?”

I can feel their ribs moving in time with mine.

If I’d known about the coup, I could’ve helped.

Things could’ve been different. We could’ve had more options.

“Don’t think about what could’ve been.” They smooth my hair back. “You’ll only drive yourself mad.”

I wonder what regrets they have, the demons that plague them at night. What choices have they made that are hard for them to face?

“You stopped drinking.”

They shrink away, ever-so-slightly. “You noticed.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t think it warranted a conversation.”

“I’ve read that abstaining from heavy alcohol consumption can cause serious symptoms,” I say, remembering how their wings gave out as they shrank and fell. They looked so fragile, cupped in my hands. “You should have told me why you were so sick that night you showed up for me. I would’ve watched over you more closely.”

“We really don’t need to talk about this,” they say, their words soft but venomous.

I may not be able to sense their feelings, but I can tell I’ve pushed into a painful spot, made them defensive.

“Why should you get to feel all of my shame and share none of yours with me?” I ask. “It hurts me to know that my feelings weigh you down so heavily.”

They cover their eyes. “It’s not your fault.”

“I know.” I pull their hand away. “We’ve always been in this together, though. You don’t have to shoulder everything alone.”

They huff a short laugh. “You make it sound like some heroic feat, but I’m not the person the stories make me out to be.”

“No, you’re not.” They’re not a perfect, fearless warrior, just like I’m not a perfect, beautiful Mer-Princess whose life purpose is to get married. “But you’re good.”

Their eyes shine periwinkle in the candlelight. “I haven’t been good in a very long time.”

“Yes, you are,” I assert. “Even when you’re struggling.” I press my closed fist to their breastbone, letting my fingers bloom slowly to feel their heartbeat against my palm. “I’ve known you were good from the beginning.”