12. Meridian
Meridian
TWELVE
" M ay I?" Cyreus asks from the water, gesturing toward my boat.
I get it immediately. The first step. He wants to join me properly, not just float nearby. "Of course."
I watch as the transformation flows through him like water finding its level, his massive form shifting back into the human shape I'm getting used to. He pulls himself onto the dive platform with that fluid grace that's becoming familiar, water streaming from his body as he settles beside me.
His completely naked body.
"Oh," I manage to squeak out, my eyes going exactly where they shouldn't before I can stop them. "I, uh..."
It takes him a beat to realize what's wrong. When it hits him, his face goes red and his hands fly to cover himself.
"I seem to have lost my clothes," he stammers, looking mortified.
"Your clothes?" I'm trying really hard to keep my eyes on his face and failing spectacularly .
"The transformation doesn't... they don't survive the process. I lost them when I shifted to show you my true form." He's looking around like he expects clothes to just appear out of thin air. "I apologize. I should have thought—"
"Don't apologize," I interrupt, though my voice comes out strangled. "Just... give me a second."
I practically flee to the cabin, my face burning as I dig through my storage for the biggest towel I can find. This is ridiculous. We've been as intimate as two beings can possibly be, but somehow him sitting naked on my deck has me flustered like a teenager.
When I come back, he's sitting exactly where I left him, looking like he wants to sink through the deck.
"Here." I hand him the towel while studying a fascinating cloud formation over his left shoulder.
"Thank you." He wraps it around his waist with obvious relief. "This is why I usually stay in the water."
"Right. Makes perfect sense." I sit back down, hyperaware of his bare chest and the towel sitting low on his hips. "Totally logical."
Awkward silence stretches between us, filled only by waves slapping against Deep Pockets' hull.
"So," I finally say, clearing my throat, "you were there the whole time?"
"Every moment." The guilt in his voice is unmistakable. "Watching you call for me, seeing your pain, telling myself I was protecting you when really I was just protecting myself. "
I study his profile—the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers keep moving restlessly against his knee. "How long can you hold this form?"
"This form?" He glances down like he'd forgotten what he looks like.
"The human shape. Does it... hurt to maintain it?"
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe, that I thought to ask. "Yes. It's painful."
The simple admission hits me harder than it should. "Then why—"
"Because this is how you know me. How you can be comfortable with me." He turns to face me fully. "My true form is... overwhelming. Alien in ways your mind isn't built to process easily. This shape lets us communicate as equals."
I think about that first transformation, how his massive form took my breath away but never scared me. "I wasn't overwhelmed."
"You were aroused," he says bluntly, making me blush again. "Desire can mask fear, make the impossible seem acceptable. But real connection—talking, understanding, building something that lasts—that needs a form you can relate to."
There's logic in what he's saying, but I can hear what it costs him. "How long have you been able to do this? Change shape like this?"
"My people have adaptive camouflage, like your octopi or cuttlefish. We can alter our appearance to blend in or mimic other species when needed." He stares at his hands like they belong to someone else. "But this level of transformation... I learned it through decades of watching humans."
"Learned how?"
"Trial and error. Watching how you move, how you hold yourselves, how your bodies work. My first attempts were..." He pauses. "Bad. Painful. Sometimes dangerous."
I picture him alone in the depths, practicing human form with no one to teach him, no way to know if he was getting it right. The loneliness of it makes my chest ache.
"How long did it take?"
"Years. The basic structure came first—walking upright, the right number of limbs, roughly the right size. But the details... skin texture, facial expressions, the way humans breathe and blink and move their hands... those took decades to get right."
"You did all that just to talk to humans?"
"I did it because I couldn't stand being alone anymore." His honesty is raw, unguarded. "Because watching your kind from a distance wasn't enough. Because I needed to know what connection felt like instead of just observing it from the outside."
The weight of his century of isolation hits me like a physical blow. Teaching himself to become something he's not, all for the chance at real contact with another being.
"But you still can't..." I gesture toward the harbor, the town beyond. "You can't actually go on land, can you?"
"No." He follows my gaze, and I see longing in his eyes. "The transformation has limits. I can hold human form for hours, maybe a full day if I push myself. But I need water to survive. My breathing, my skin, the way I process nutrients—it all requires regular immersion."
"How regular?"
"Maybe six hours on land before it becomes dangerous. Less if I'm stressed or exerting myself." He looks down at his hands again. "And holding this form while dehydrating is... unpleasant."
The way he says "unpleasant" tells me he's massively understating things.
"Have you tried it? Going into town?"
"Once. Early on, when I was still figuring out your customs." His expression darkens. "I thought if I could walk among humans, observe up close, I might learn how to make contact. I made it to the Tidewash docks, spent maybe an hour wandering the streets."
"What happened?"
"My body gave out. I couldn't maintain the transformation, couldn't get back to water fast enough. If there hadn't been a fog bank to hide me, your neighbors would have seen me change back right in the middle of Main Street."
I imagine him stumbling through Tidewash's narrow streets, fighting pain, desperately trying to reach the harbor before his disguise failed. The thought makes my throat tight.
"You could have died."
"Nearly did. That's when I learned that no matter how well I can mimic human appearance, I'll always be stuck at the edge between your world and mine. "
The quiet acceptance in his voice breaks something inside me. "Is that why you've been watching from a distance? Because you can't really join human society?"
"Partly." He meets my eyes. "But also because I couldn't imagine anyone choosing a relationship with such built-in limitations. What kind of life could I offer someone who can't live in my world any more than I can live in theirs?"
"Maybe that's not your choice to make."
"Isn't it?" He gestures around us. "Look where we are, Meri. Floating in the middle of nowhere because it's the only place we can both exist comfortably. You can't build a life underwater any more than I can build one on land."
"Maybe we don't need to build it in either place. Maybe we build something new."
He stares at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. "You make it sound simple."
"Maybe it is simple. Maybe we're just overthinking it because we're both used to being alone."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—the first real hope I've seen from him. "You might be right."
"I'm always right. Ask anyone in Tidewash."
That gets a laugh out of him, the sound so perfectly human I almost forget how much effort it takes him to maintain this form.
"How are you feeling now?" I ask. "Sitting here like this, I mean. "
"Manageable. Being near the water helps, and I'm not doing anything strenuous." He rolls his shoulders, working out tension I can't see. "But I should probably change back soon."
"Do you want to?"
"Want doesn't really matter. This form is... borrowed. Temporary. It starts breaking down if I hold it too long."
I take his hand, noticing how cool his skin feels despite the warm afternoon. "Then change back. Be comfortable."
"Here? With you watching?"
"I've seen you before, Cyreus. I'm not going anywhere."
He searches my face for doubt or discomfort, finding only genuine acceptance and worry for his wellbeing.
"You keep surprising me," he says quietly.
"I'm practical. And I care about you too much to watch you hurt yourself just so we can have a conversation."
Something breaks open in his expression, revealing depths I'm only starting to understand. "No one's ever worried about my comfort before."
"Well, someone does now."
He brings our joined hands to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to my knuckles. "What did I do to deserve you?"
"You saved my life. You trusted me with the truth. You're sitting here in pain just so we can talk properly." I squeeze his fingers. "I think the question is what I did to deserve you."
He closes his eyes, making some kind of decision. When he looks at me again, I see resolve mixed with vulnerability.
"Will you stay while I change? "
"Of course." I give his hand another squeeze. "Go be yourself."
"Thank you," he says, relief evident in every word.
He slides into the water, and I watch him submerge, anticipation building. The water around him starts to glow with that subtle bioluminescence, and I lean forward with a smile, ready to greet him properly.