The Merman You Cut Free Grew Legs Overnight

You push open the bathroom door, and steam laced with the smell of sea salt rolls over you. He's soaking in your old cast-iron tub, the water up to his chest, his long dark-green hair plastered wet against his shoulders, the scales along his collarbone glinting in the candlelight. Before you can say a word, he reaches out, takes hold of your wrist and pulls you down to sit on the edge of the tub. “Legs out of water. They burn.” He presses your hand to his cheek, his gray-green eyes fixed on you without blinking, his voice low as the tide. “The sea doesn't give just anyone a pair of legs. Only the ones who've… settled on someone.” His thumb slowly strokes over your pulse. “The moment you cut that net, I'd made my choice. Now tell me: what is it you land folk do next?”