Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Hello! Welcome to the fic. I don't really see a lot of Final Destination stuff on here, so I decided to make my own. I'll be updating this work every day and try to crank out as many chapters as possible. I hope you enjoy!

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Quick explanation of the fic (POV Alternating)

Peter Friedkin joins a pirate crew on a ship called 'Flight 180', he meets the ship's crew which include Carter Horton, Thomas Burke, Kevin Fischer, Hunt Wynorski, and of course Peter Friedkin

He is from a long line of pirates in his family but, to everyone's surprise, is somehow unaware of the true dangers of the ocean

He quickly learns that the ocean is worse than he expected and truly wishes he had never signed up for the job

A couple weeks into the job, he finds himself unable to look away from the creature that are considered the most dangerous and cunning creatures in the ocean

Chapter Text

June 3rd, 7:30 AM

Peter sat awake in his bed, staring at his hands as they trembled slightly and his mind wandered. This wasn't his first rodeo in the works of finding a job, this one just made him slightly more nervous than usual.

'Am I always this nervous when it comes to jobs?'  Peter thought, 'No.... I can't be, right?' 

In the back of his mind, he knew that he wasn't, it was all the legacy he had to live up to. His parents had been pirates for years before they eventually retired to have their own family, even his grandparents had been pirates. Hell, probably even his great, great grandparents. There was just so much success in the family that he just didn't want to disappoint anyone.

Yet somehow, that was only one of the reasons he was so nervous. His family had only ever told him the good about becoming a pirate, the bad was left unshared. Every time Peter asked, 'What about all the bad things that could happen?' or 'How dangerous really is the ocean?' He was always met with the same answer.

'I'll tell you when you're older.'

Eventually Peter just stopped asking because he knew he'd be met with the same bullshit every time.

At some point during this whole recall of his childhood Peter had gotten himself out of bed and standing in front of his wardrobe, trying to decide which pair of pants he was willing to wear to work knowing they would get dirty.

'Should I wear the brown pants? No, those are my nice ones. I'll just wear the blue ones then.'  Peter put on the pair of blue pants and walked over to his mirror to look at his outfit. White long sleeve shirt (with the sleeves rolled up), dark blue pants, and black boots. 'A pretty decent outfit if I do say so myself.'

Peter walked over to his desk chair, grabbed his brown backpack and opened it to make sure he had everything he needed.

Compass, a med kit which included bandages and alcohol for cleaning wounds, rations that should last him a couple weeks, a little pouch of gold coins, some candles, and a box of matches. 

'Should be 'bout everything I need.'  Peter thought as he looked around his room for anything he might have missed. 

There was an axe hanging on his wardrobe door, 'I shouldn't need that... right?', it came in useful sure, but he wouldn't need it just to go to some job. 

Something in his stomach twisted sickeningly, telling him that it wasn't wise to leave without it. 'Maybe just in case.'  He thought whilst grabbing the axe's handle.

He had never used the axe on anything, it was a gift to him on his 17th birthday from his father. Hell, that might have been the only time he ever really held the thing. Something about him just felt the need to take it, even if he was never going to use it. At least he hoped.

He buckled the axe to the front of the bag with the strap that was free, closed the bag, and swung it over his shoulder as he neared the doorway of the room. Looking at his room one last time before shutting the door behind him and walking out into the hallway that led to the living room.

He looked at all the pictures hanging on the walls while walking through the room toward the front door. So many great memories with his family, he wished they would have come to visit sometime.

He reached the front door and opened it softly, looking back at his home, and sighing before shutting the door behind him and pulling out his key to look the door. 

'Hope I'm gone for too long', He thought, pocketing his key, 'Don't want to collect to much dust.'

He turned around to face the world.

The sun glaring in his eyes.

The smell of the sea hitting him instantly.

The chatter of the people shopping at the nearby vendors and the chirping of seagulls.

'Maybe it won't be as bad as I imagined.'

Chapter Text

June 3rd, 9:05 AM

Peter would arrive to his new job in roughly 10 minutes. He would have arrived earlier, but he had stopped at a local vendor and bought a cup of coffee and small container assorted fruit.

The more he walked, the closer the big building in the distance got. Knowing he was way more confident than he when he woke up, it brought him at ease.

He had this job in the bag.

And if he didn't.

Well, then his life just might really be over.

June 3rd, 9:18 AM

Peter stood outside the larger double doors of the building, fidgeting nervously with his fingers. He was confident sure, but he was just a little nervous about meeting all the new people.

'C'mon you can do this; you've done this a million times. It's just a job, it's not as serious as you think.'

Peter took a long breath out and pushed the doors open to the building, from first glance the place was very well kept and nicely decorated.

There was hardly anyone in the waiting area besides a few people sitting down and talking to one another. 

Looking around the room for a second, Peter noticed a well-dressed young lady sitting at what seemed to be a reception desk.

"Um hi, my name is Peter Friedkin, I have a meeting at 9:20." Peter said with a slight nervousness in his voice. "Welcome," said the girl, "your just on time Mr. Friedkin, please follow me." 

She got up from her chair and looked at Peter, waiting for him to follow her.

"Your very popular around this part of town Mr. Friedkin," she said while walking down the decently long hallway as Peter followed closely behind, "everyone is very excited to meet you."

'Oh great, just another thing to add to the pressure.' 

The lady stopped in front of a big wooden door that stood out from the rest of the doors. This one looked like it had been here for a while, while the others looked brand new.

She put her hand on the doorknob and turned it, "Good luck Mr. Friedkin." "Oh, thank you."

She opened the door the rest of the way and turned around and begun walking away.

Peter turned, facing the open door and walking in slightly. 

The room was quiet when Peter stepped inside.

The walls, dark wood worn smooth by years of salty air and smoke, towered above him. The scent of damp rope and old maps lingered in the heavy air. At the far end stood the Boss’s desk, a massive slab of oak without a single chair in front of it. Between Peter and the desk was a wide, round table, polished to a dull shine by countless hands and secrets, with two curved bench seats hugging its sides. The benches were old wood with faded red cushions, creaking softly as the four crew members shifted where they sat.

Peter didn’t move toward the benches. He stayed standing just in front of the table, aware that there was no place for him to sit. Not yet.

To his left sat a guy with sharp blue eyes and dark brown hair, jaw clenched like he was constantly ready to prove something. He sat with his arms crossed and chin lifted, radiating that "hit first, ask later" kind of energy.

Next to him lounged a boy with lighter brown hair and a glint in his eye like he was already ten steps ahead in some joke only he got. He leaned back slightly, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like nothing around him ever caught him off guard.

On the right side of the table, a blonde guy spun a gold coin over his knuckles. His eyes flicked to Peter for half a second before going back to the coin, like he’d already made his judgment and didn’t really care if it was right or not.

Across from the others, a man with dark brown hair and eyes sat comfortably, back straight, shoulders loose. He looked like he could knock someone out cold and then offer them advice on how to take the hit better next time.

At the far end of the room, the Boss leaned casually against his desk, arms crossed, a slow grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. His voice was low and easy as he finally spoke.

“So, you’re Peter.”

Peter nodded, keeping his eyes steady on the Boss. “That’s me.”

The Boss gave a slow, knowing nod. “I figured as much. Clean enough to walk in here, but you carry a weight in that name. People around here still talk about your family. It’s like a shadow no one can shake.”

Peter’s chest tightened. “I’ve trained for this. I’m ready.”

“Good,” the Boss said, pushing off the desk to walk slowly around the table toward Peter. “You’ll be joining the crew of Flight 180 tomorrow. These guys,” he gestured toward the benches, “have been out there. They’ll show you the ropes.”

Peter glanced at the crew, but none of them said a word. Their silence was thick—like they already knew how dangerous the ocean could be, and didn’t feel like sugarcoating it.

The Boss stopped in front of him and folded his arms. “Before you step aboard, I gotta ask. You know the basics, right?”

Peter squared his shoulders. “Yeah. Navigation, tides, currents, survival drills.”

The Boss nodded slowly. “Alright. Then answer me this: What’s the biggest danger in the ocean?”

Without hesitation, Peter said, “Storms. They’re unpredictable and deadly.”

The room froze. Even the coin stopped flipping midair.

The Boss’s smile faded. “Storms are fierce, sure. They take ships down, drown crews. But we’ve learned to survive them. Patch the sails, ride the waves. Storms don’t scare us the most.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “There’s something else out there. Something quiet. Something that’s stolen more lives than storms—maybe not more than war, but it racks up the highest death toll in this town. Pirates, fishermen… even the toughest sailors. They disappear without a trace.”

Peter didn’t speak. But something shifted in his posture—his shoulders stiffened, and his hands curled just slightly at his sides. His eyes locked onto the Boss’s, but the confidence in them cracked, just a hairline fracture.

The Boss looked around the room, eyes lingering on each crew member, all silent, all watching.

“The water changes when it’s near,” he said. “The sounds die down. Even the wind seems to hold its breath. You won’t see it coming. You won’t hear it.”

He locked eyes with Peter again. “And if you’re lucky... you’ll live long enough to regret ever knowing what it is.”

Peter’s chest rose a little faster, but he stayed quiet. The coin made a final, soft clink in the blonde guy’s palm.

The Boss’s expression shifted then—like flipping a switch. His shoulders relaxed, a bit of warmth slid back into his voice, and he gave Peter a light slap on the arm as he stepped back.

“But hey,” he said with a crooked grin, “no need to freak out yet. Let’s not pretend this crew ain’t solid.”

He pointed to the dark-haired hothead first. “That’s Carter Horton. He’s got fists for brains sometimes, but he doesn’t back down from anything, and I mean anything.”

Then to the smirking, clever-eyed boy next to him. “Kevin Fischer. Don’t try to lie around him. He’ll catch it before the words leave your mouth.”

His finger swung to the coin-flipping blonde. “Hunt Wynorski. Don’t take anything he says too personal—he’s got a mouth like sandpaper and no brake pedal.”

And finally, he nodded toward the older man still sitting like he owned the place. “Thomas Burke. Big heart, bigger fists. When things go sideways, he’s the one you want between you and the problem.”

The Boss turned back to Peter. “Welcome to the team. Flight 180’s a mean old beast, but with this crew? You’ve got a shot.”

Peter gave a slow nod, silent but already taking mental notes. He wasn’t sure what lay ahead—but he knew the game had just changed.

Chapter Text

June 3rd, 12:48 PM

Peter stood at the edge of the dock, staring out at the silhouette of Flight 180 like it might blink and vanish if he looked away.

'This is really happening.'

The ship wasn’t massive, but it had presence. Tall masts, dark wood, sails furled tight like a clenched fist. It sat in the water like it belonged there—like it had seen more than it would ever tell.

Peter tightened his grip on the strap of his bag.

'Dad would’ve walked straight on without blinking. He’d already have half the crew’s respect just by standing there.'

But Peter? He wasn’t his dad. No matter how many people whispered his last name like it meant something, he still felt like that same kid who watched waves crash from the shore, wondering what was out there. Hoping it wouldn’t swallow him whole.

'Storms I can handle. Maps, knots, sails? Easy. But whatever they’re not saying… it’s something else.'

He glanced back toward the town. The buildings looked small from here. Safe. Boring. That life was gone now.

He let out a breath and turned back to the ship.

'Alright. Time to meet the legends I’m supposed to survive with.'

He started walking down the dock, each step hollow against the wood. With every creak underfoot, the ship grew bigger in his mind. The sea darker. The truth closer.

'Whatever's out there… I’ll find out. One way or another.'

And with that, Peter stepped into the unknown.

June 3rd, 12:52 PM

The wooden planks of Flight 180 creaked softly under Peter’s boots as he stepped aboard. The ship smelled of salt, tar, and something faintly metallic. Sea air mixed with a whisper of old stories clinging to the sails like ghosts that didn’t know how to move on.

Peter adjusted the strap on his pack, heart thudding behind his ribs. This wasn’t just any ship. It was a legend in its own right — and now it was his. Sort of.

'Well,' he thought, 'mine to survive, anyway.'

He’d met the boss. He’d stood in that big room with the red-cushioned benches and the chill that never quite left. He remembered the way the others had looked at him — like he was supposed to know something.

But whatever danger they were all afraid of, nobody had said it.

Not really.

Peter exhaled and made his way toward the nearest crew member.

June 3rd, 12:54 PM

Peter spotted Carter leaning against the base of the helm, one boot propped against the wood like he owned the place. His arms were folded tight across his chest, biceps tensed beneath a worn t-shirt, and his expression was set in that permanent “try me” smirk that looked like it’d been carved there during high school football drills.

Peter approached, slow and casual.

“Hey,” he said, offering a nod. “Carter, right?”

Carter didn’t even move at first. Just let his blue eyes flick to Peter, sizing him up like a challenge. Then he huffed through his nose and gave the smallest nod.

“Guess the boss decided you’re worth wasting our time on.”

Peter blinked, caught off guard. “I mean—I hope not. I’m here to pull my weight.”

Carter chuckled, low and dry. “Hope’s cute. Let’s see if it keeps you breathing.”

Peter let that one slide, though his jaw clenched a little. “You’ve been on Flight 180 a while?”

“Long enough to know who makes it, and who ends up in pieces.”

Peter glanced at the sea. “So what is it? Everyone keeps dancing around the question. I’ve heard things—people going missing, ships never coming back…”

Carter’s face tightened. Just a flicker. But it was there.

“You really don’t know?”

Peter shook his head. “I’d like to.”

Carter leaned in a bit, his voice lowering like he didn’t want the ship itself to hear him. “There’s stuff out there that doesn’t make sense. And it’s not the kind of thing you can prep for. You don’t fight it. You just try not to be seen.”

Peter’s brows pulled together. “Seen by what?”

Carter’s jaw clenched. “If you’re lucky, you won’t find out.”

With that, he shoved off the helm and walked off down the deck, leaving Peter with nothing but salt wind and more damn questions.

Kevin was cross-legged near the ship’s railing, his back against a crate, flipping through a small, beat-up notebook. His lighter brown hair was a bit messy, like he’d just rolled out of bed or didn’t care to fix it, and his fingers tapped absently on the page as he read.

Peter approached slowly.

“Kevin?”

Kevin glanced up, one eyebrow raised. “You’re the legacy kid.”

Peter half-laughed. “Yeah. Guess that’s me.”

Kevin scooted over just a little, silently inviting him to sit.

Peter did, watching him for a second. “What’s in the book?”

Kevin tilted it so Peter could peek. Maps, sketches, notes scribbled in fast, slanted handwriting. “Field notes. Places we’ve been. Things we’ve seen. Patterns, mostly.”

Peter scanned a few drawings—some looked like symbols, others like waves with something moving beneath them.

“You’re keeping track of the disappearances,” Peter guessed.

Kevin smirked. “Something like that.”

Peter leaned forward. “Okay, level with me. What is out there? No one’s said it straight. It’s like everyone’s too scared to name it.”

Kevin paused. His gaze drifted to the sea.

“You ever walk into a room and forget why you went in?” he asked.

Peter blinked. “I mean… yeah?”

Kevin nodded. “Imagine that. Except you forget who you are, where you are, and why you were ever afraid to drown.”

Peter’s blood ran a little cold.

Kevin turned a page. “That’s the ocean’s favorite trick. Makes you forget why staying on land ever mattered.”

Peter hesitated. “But… what’s doing that? What’s causing it?”

Kevin tapped the notebook closed. “Things older than us. Things that remember what our blood sounds like in the water.”

Before Peter could get another word in, Kevin stood and walked off, leaving that cryptic horror hanging in the salt air.

Hunt was slouched in a hammock tied low between two support beams, a gold coin flipping between his fingers like it was part of him. He didn’t even open his eyes when Peter approached.

Peter stood there awkwardly for a moment.

“You Hunt?”

“Nope. I’m the ship’s therapist,” he muttered.

Peter huffed. “Wow. Real comforting.”

Hunt cracked an eye open and grinned. “I do what I can.”

Peter folded his arms. “Look, I’m just trying to get a real answer from someone. I’m not new to the ocean, but I’m starting to feel like I’ve been swimming in the kiddie pool until now.”

Hunt finally sat up a bit. “So you want the big scary truth?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

As Hunt tossed the coin into the air, Peter’s eyes followed it. The thing was clearly gold—not plated, not fake. Worn but heavy, it had this almost ancient shine to it, with a strange mark carved deep into its surface. Something about it felt... off. Not in a bad way, but like it had a story it didn’t want to tell.

“That’s a real gold coin, isn’t it?” Peter asked, nodding at it.

Hunt caught the coin mid-air, then closed his fingers around it like a reflex. His relaxed vibe dropped a degree.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said flatly.

Peter raised a brow. “Just curious. You don’t see coins like that anymore.”

“And there’s a reason for that,” Hunt replied, slipping the coin into his pocket without breaking eye contact. “I keep it because it’s mine. That’s all anyone needs to know.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You ever feel like something’s watching you? Not a person. Not an animal. Something wrong. Like the air itself wants you to step off the edge and fall in.”

Peter said nothing.

“Out here, that feeling’s real,” Hunt continued. “It whispers. Lures. And if you’re the kind of idiot who chases pretty things without thinking, you’re already dead.”

Peter squinted. “So what is it? What whispers?”

Hunt gave him a long look, then smiled like he wasn’t going to say another damn word. “If I told you, you’d start hearing them tonight.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “You people are exhausting.”

“Thanks. We try.”

Thomas was at the bow of the ship, arms folded, gaze locked on the horizon like it might tell him a secret. He turned as Peter approached, and for once, Peter didn’t feel like he had to put on a face. Thomas’s eyes were sharp but calm, like a lighthouse in a storm.

“Thomas,” Peter said. “Mind if I ask you something?”

Thomas gave a small nod. “Go ahead.”

Peter stepped closer, lowering his voice. “What’s really out there? What’s everyone so afraid of?”

Thomas didn’t speak right away. Just looked at the sea for a while, like he was searching for something in the waves.

Then he said, “They’re not just myths.”

Peter’s skin prickled.

“They’re real. Mermaids. Sirens. Merfolk. Whatever you want to call them. They don’t look like monsters. That’s how they get you.”

Thomas’s voice was even, steady.

“They’re beautiful. Mesmerizing. And their songs… they aren’t just music. They dig into your head. Into your heart. You’ll hear them call your name, make you feel like they know you. Like they love you. And then—”

He paused.

“You walk into the sea. Smiling. Drowning. Never coming back.”

Peter’s breath caught.

Thomas looked him dead in the eye. “You don’t fight them. You avoid them. Stay with the crew. Stay on the ship. Don’t go near the edge alone. Don’t listen.”

He put a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“They’re the reason sailors vanish in calm waters. The reason whole crews disappear without a trace. You want to survive out here?”

Peter nodded, slowly.

“Then never trust what sings in the water.”

June 3rd, 8:56 PM

Peter dropped his bag by the door, shoes still dusty from the dock. The house felt quieter than usual, like it was holding its breath with him. He slumped onto the couch, rubbing the back of his neck, his mind spinning with everything he’d heard.

Carter’s fire, Kevin’s sharp wit, Hunt’s cryptic coin, and Thomas—Thomas with that story about the mermaids. Not just stories. Real. Dangerous. Deadly. The ocean wasn’t just water and waves. It was something else. Something waiting.

'Mermaids? ' The word echoed in his head, making his skin crawl. He swallowed hard. Tomorrow wasn’t just another day on a ship. It was stepping into a whole new world—a world darker than he ever imagined.

His heart hammered a little faster. What if he wasn’t ready? What if the legacy he carried wasn’t enough?

Peter shook his head, trying to calm the storm inside him. 'You got this. You have to.'

But the doubt lingered.

The sun slipped behind the horizon, shadows creeping across his room. Finally, he stood and headed to his bedroom, every step heavier than the last.

Lying down, he stared at the ceiling, eyes wide open. The quiet was thick, filled with the weight of what tomorrow could bring.

With a slow breath, he shut his eyes, trying to will the nerves away.

'Tomorrow’s a new start.'

And somehow, that thought was enough to finally pull him into sleep.

Chapter Text

June 4th, 7:47 AM

The alarm didn’t get a chance to go off.

Peter’s eyes cracked open before sunrise, the early morning light leaking in through the half-closed blinds. For a second, everything was quiet—too quiet. And then it hit him.

Today was the day.

First time stepping foot on Flight 180 as an actual crew member. First day. First night. First everything.

He sat up slowly, his bedsheets tangled around his legs like they were trying to hold him back. His chest felt tight, like someone had stuffed nerves into every open space between his ribs. Another deep breath didn’t help, but he took it anyway.

His little one-story house creaked softly as he moved, the floorboards letting out sleepy groans as he shuffled to the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, stared at himself in the mirror.

'You got this. You have to.'

He pulled on his clothes piece by piece—black boots, dark fitted pants, a lightweight gray cargo jacket, and underneath it all, a deep blue long-sleeve shirt that clung a little snug around the sleeves. The blue wasn’t loud, but it stood out. A quiet kind of bold. Something steady to hold onto.

He triple-checked his bag—compass, knife, water flask—then slung it over his shoulder.

No breakfast. No appetite.

He stepped outside into the chilled morning air, locking the door behind him. The sky was pale and sleepy, the kind of blue that didn’t promise anything but kept you looking anyway. The breeze carried a sharp bite of salt and something deeper—older.

The walk to the docks was short but heavy. Every step thudded through his boots like a countdown. The town behind him was still tucked in bed, the world quiet except for the occasional seagull and the distant slap of water against the harbor.

And then—there she was.

Flight 180.

Docked like she’d been waiting for him this whole time. Her dark wood hull glistened faintly in the low light, ropes coiled neatly, sails furled tight, and a faint mist clinging to her edges like she was part of the sea itself.

Peter’s heart knocked once, hard.

He spotted the shapes of the crew moving on board—too far to pick out who was who yet, but he knew they were up there. Carter, Kevin, Hunt, Thomas. All of them.

Waiting.

The ocean stretched out behind the ship like an open mouth, silent and endless. Somewhere out there were things he didn’t understand. Things no one wanted to name.

His grip tightened on his bag.

'One step at a time.'

The dock creaked beneath his boots.

Then came the deck.

And after that—whatever was waiting in the deep.

The second Peter stepped onto the deck of Flight 180, it hit him all at once—the creak of the weathered wood beneath his boots, the sharp sting of salt in the air, and the low hum of motion as the crew moved like muscle memory around him. This wasn’t some touristy harbor stroll. This was the real thing. The kind of place you either earned or got chewed up by.

It felt like stepping into another world. One that didn’t wait for anyone.

And he was the newest, shiniest piece of it.

Carter was the first to clock him.

“Look who finally showed up,” he called out from where he was tying down a crate, voice soaked in that cocky confidence he wore like cologne. “Thought maybe you chickened out, rookie.”

Peter gave him a look that landed somewhere between shut up and maybe I did.

Kevin, leaning casually against a nearby post with his arms crossed, smirked without even turning his head. “Ten gold says he pukes before we even clear the harbor.”

“Make it fifteen,” Carter grinned, tightening a knot without missing a beat.

Peter opened his mouth to fire back, but before he could, Hunt strolled by, that same gold coin dancing across his knuckles like it had a life of its own. He didn’t even slow down.

“You guys are betting on this kid already? Damn,” Hunt said with a lazy drawl. “At least let him get seasick first. Rookie tax.”

Peter raised a brow. “You’re all just super welcoming, huh?”

Hunt gave a half-shrug, flipping the coin into the air and catching it like a reflex. “Only to people who survive the first night.”

Peter couldn’t tell if that was a joke or a warning. Or both.

Further down the deck, Thomas stood with one boot propped up on a coil of rope, arms crossed, his presence calm but solid, like the ship itself. He was watching everything—the crew, the rigging, the horizon—but when Peter glanced his way, Thomas caught his eye and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Not flashy. Just enough to say: You’re alright. For now.

Peter held onto that nod like a grip on a lifeline.

The crew moved like they’d been born on this ship. Ropes were secured with practiced speed, crates shifted into place, sails tested and rechecked. Every hand had a role; every step had a rhythm. Peter hovered at the edges, soaking it all in, unsure if stepping in would help or just get him yelled at.

He wanted to belong, but for now. He settled for not screwing anything up.

Then came the voice that sliced through the buzz of motion.

“Alright, listen up!”

The Boss stepped onto the dock like a storm cloud in a coat, arms behind his back, boots landing with precision. His coat flared in the breeze like it had rehearsed the moment. He didn’t shout—but his voice carried like it was stitched into the wind.

“You’ve got fair weather for now,” he said, eyes sweeping the deck, “but don’t let that fool you. Flight 180 doesn’t need sunshine—she needs a crew that knows what the hell they’re doing.”

The crew paused. Not out of fear—out of habit. Respect. They listened.

The Boss let his gaze travel from Carter, to Kevin, to Hunt, and finally landed on Peter.

Peter stood a little taller without realizing it.

“You’re green,” the Boss said, voice level. “But you’ve got a name that echoes louder than most. Let’s hope you earn it out there.”

Peter nodded, jaw tight. There wasn’t a right answer to that—just work to be done.

The Boss shifted his gaze to the sails, the horizon, the ship as a whole. Something unreadable flickered in his expression. Pride, maybe. Worry, maybe not. Whatever it was, he kept it to himself.

“Tide’s in. Get moving. And stay smart.”

And just like that, he turned on his heel and walked back down the dock.

“Alright, let’s get this beast moving!” Carter shouted, already halfway to the stern.

Kevin moved fast, untying the dock lines like he’d done it a thousand times, whistling something low and off-key. Hunt patted the mast once, like he was greeting an old friend, then hopped up to help with the rigging. Thomas took his spot at the sails, pulling with quiet power.

Peter stood near the middle of the deck, frozen for just a beat as he felt the subtle sway of the ship shifting beneath him.

The dock slipped away, the ropes were cast off, and the land—solid, reliable, familiar—faded behind them.

The air changed. Cleaner. Sharper. Like it didn’t care who you were.

And just like that, they were off.

Flight 180 wasn’t tied to anything anymore.

And neither was Peter.

June 4th, 9:58 AM

The sun had crept higher in the sky, casting a soft golden sheen across the open sea. The breeze tugged at the sails with just enough force to keep Flight 180 gliding steady, her wood groaning like she was stretching her legs after a long sleep.

Peter leaned against the side rail, eyes trailing the endless blue. The waves sparkled like scattered glass. Out here, it was all ocean and sky—like the world had simplified into just two things. Peaceful, sure… but also kinda eerie, like the calm had teeth.

Behind him, the crew was scattered across the deck, doing a mix of working and slacking off.

Carter sat perched on a barrel, a half-eaten apple in hand and a dagger in the other, lazily carving something into the wood beneath him.

Kevin was nearby, flipping through a weather-worn journal and muttering something under his breath that sounded like he was correcting it. Every now and then, he’d look up and shout a sarcastic comment about Carter’s “artwork,” which Carter returned with an eye roll or an exaggerated yawn.

“You two gonna start throwing punches or kiss already?” Hunt called from the rigging, lounging like a cat on the crossbeam, one leg dangling over the edge.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Carter called back, biting into his apple.

Kevin smirked. “If I wanted to kiss someone up there, I’d at least aim higher.”

Hunt flicked his gold coin off his thumb, caught it with ease, and grinned. “Please. I’d be the best mistake you ever made.”

Peter just blinked. “This is the crew I’m trusting my life with, huh?”

Thomas, polishing a compass near the wheel, chuckled. “Better get used to it. This is the quiet version of them.”

Peter pushed off the railing and wandered toward the center of the deck, the sun warming his back. “Is it always like this?”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘like this.’”

“Like… weirdly relaxed for being on the water with something no one wants to talk about?”

That got a pause.

Kevin closed his book slowly. Carter tossed his apple core overboard. Hunt didn’t say a thing—just twirled his coin faster.

Peter glanced around. “I mean, I’ve asked everyone. What’s actually out there? Everyone gives me riddles or smartass answers.”

Thomas didn’t look up. “That’s because knowing and understanding aren’t the same thing.”

Peter was about to press more, but Hunt whistled low and loud. “Yo! Dolphin pod off the port side!”

Everyone turned as a handful of slick, grey shapes burst from the water in perfect arcs. Sunlight glinted off their backs, and for a moment, the whole deck was caught in silence.

Even Peter smiled.

“I’ll admit,” he said softly, “this part doesn’t suck.”

Thomas finally looked up from the compass. “No. It doesn’t.”

Then he looked out over the water, eyes narrowing slightly, like he was watching more than dolphins. Like he was waiting for something.

Peter followed his gaze but saw nothing but waves.

The dolphins eventually vanished beneath the waves, disappearing as quickly as they came, leaving behind a ripple that faded into the sea’s rhythm. Peter stood there a little longer than the rest, watching where they’d gone, as if they might come back—or as if something else might follow.

“Not bad for a first day,” Carter said behind him, clapping him on the back hard enough to make Peter stumble. “Didn’t puke, didn’t cry. You're already doing better than Hunt did.”

“Lies,” Hunt called lazily from above. “I puked once. And it was because someone gave me bad stew.”

“You ate five bowls,” Kevin shot back, without even looking up from where he was fiddling with a knot in one of the lines.

“Because I believed in our cook,” Hunt said, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “And he betrayed me.”

Peter smirked and shook his head. “You guys really spend this much time arguing?”

“This is just warm-up,” Kevin said, now pulling the knot tighter. “Wait until someone leaves their boots in the food crates again.”

“That happened once!” Carter barked.

“Twice,” Burke corrected, looking up from a coil of rope he was inspecting. “And the second time, it was because you ‘forgot where the floor was.’”

Carter raised his hands in surrender. “I don’t like being judged for my creative storage methods.”

Peter chuckled under his breath and leaned back against the rail again, soaking in the sounds of the ship—the creak of the boards, the flapping of the sails, the soft splash of the waves hitting the hull. It was… peaceful. Loud in a quiet way. The kind of peaceful that made you start to think too hard if you let it stretch out.

He caught Burke’s eye again. The older man was watching the crew with a sort of casual protectiveness, not hovering, but always aware.

Peter nodded at him. “You really think we’re in for something bad out here?”

Burke didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached down and picked up a piece of driftwood that had washed onto the deck, examining it like it held secrets. Then he said, “Bad’s always out here. Question is whether or not it finds you.”

That… did not make Peter feel better.

A gust of wind caught the sails, and the ship tilted just slightly. Hunt slid down from the rigging with practiced ease, landing in front of Peter like it was nothing. He tucked his gold coin into his pocket and gave Peter a quick glance.

“Still lookin’ for answers?”

Peter nodded. “Always.”

“Then don’t go overboard trying to find them,” Hunt said, brushing past him. “Curiosities got a body count.”

Peter turned to respond, but Hunt was already walking away, heading toward the bow where Carter and Kevin were mock sword-fighting with wooden practice blades. Their laughter rang out across the water.

He felt that chill again.

Not from the wind. From something else.

Something about the way Hunt had said it—like it wasn’t just a warning. Like it was a fact.

Peter let his gaze drift back to the sea. It looked calm. Too calm, maybe. But beautiful in a way that almost hurt.

He rested his arms on the rail, sighing.

If this was what the first day looked like… he wondered what the first night would bring.

The sun hung high above them now, blazing in a sky so clear it almost didn’t look real. The ocean stretched forever in every direction, a blanket of glittering blue that rolled and breathed with the ship. Peter leaned against the rail, squinting at the horizon. No land in sight. Just water, sky, and the occasional seabird daring to drift close.

Kevin wandered over with two canteens, tossing one to Peter without a word.

Peter caught it, surprised. “Thanks.”

“You looked like you were about to melt into the deck,” Kevin said, unscrewing his own cap. “We’ve lost guys to heatstroke before. Not on this ship, but still. It’s a dumb way to die.”

Peter blinked. “You always this cheerful?”

Kevin smirked. “Only when I like someone.”

Peter didn’t know how to take that, so he just sipped his water, letting the cool liquid chase away some of the heat.

“Y’know,” Kevin went on, leaning on the rail beside him, “you’re taking this all pretty well. Some rookies freak out just seeing the open water. You’re either really brave, or really good at pretending.”

Peter shrugged. “Maybe both.”

Kevin gave him a sideways glance. “Hm. You asked Burke yet?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

Peter looked out at the water again. “He told me enough.”

Kevin chuckled, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Yeah. He tends to do that.”

The breeze shifted, ruffling Peter’s hair, and he caught a faint scent, something floral and too sweet, like overripe fruit. He wrinkled his nose and glanced at the others. No one seemed to notice.

Before Peter could say anything, Carter’s voice cut through the quiet.

“Alright!” he shouted, standing on a barrel like a captain rallying his crew. “We’re bored, it’s hot, and I refuse to let this turn into nap hour. Games, anyone?”

“Like what?” Hunt asked, perched on a stack of coiled rope, flipping his gold coin between his fingers with casual ease.

Carter grinned. “Truth or dare.”

Kevin groaned. “We are not playing truth or dare.”

“Why not?” Carter shot back. “Classic. Timeless. Dangerous.”

“Which is why we’re not—”

“Truth or dare!” Carter yelled, pointing dramatically at Peter. “Newbie goes first!”

Peter blinked. “Wait, I didn’t agree—”

“No one ever agrees,” Carter said, hopping down from the barrel. “It’s tradition. Now pick.”

Peter looked around at the others. Hunt looked amused. Kevin looked like he was about to launch himself overboard. Burke, sitting calmly on a crate, just raised his brows like, Your move, kid.

Peter sighed. “Fine. Truth.”

“Ooh,” Carter said, rubbing his hands together. “Alright. Have you ever—be honest—thought about quitting before you even started?”

Peter hesitated.

The silence stretched a beat too long.

“...Yeah,” he admitted. “This morning.”

Hunt snorted. “See? He’s smarter than he looks.”

“Rude,” Peter muttered.

Carter threw an arm around Peter’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, you’re one of us now. Too late to run.”

“Comforting,” Peter said dryly.

Kevin nudged him. “Don’t worry, it gets easier. Sort of.”

Peter laughed, a little shaky but real. “That’s terrifying.”

Hunt flipped his coin again, catching it without missing a beat. “Scared is good. Means you’re paying attention.”

Peter’s smile faded a bit as he took that in.

They settled into a loose circle on the deck. The sun dipped lower, golden light turning the waves into molten fire. Birds called overhead, heading home.

Peter let his gaze drift over the crew — each lost in their own world, but all part of this strange new family he was just starting to understand.

And for a moment, the ocean didn’t seem quite so vast, or so lonely.

Chapter Text

June 4th, 4:24 PM

The afternoon wore on, the sun dipping just enough to soften its bite but still hanging high, casting a honey-colored glow across the endless ocean. It had to be around three or four by now—Peter wasn’t sure. Time moved weird out here, like the sea didn’t believe in clocks.

The crew had slowed down after the flurry of morning work. Most of them found their spots on deck to relax or keep watch, letting the lull of the ocean set the pace. The sails flapped lazily overhead, catching just enough wind to keep them gliding smooth and steady.

Peter sat near the front of the ship, legs crossed, a small coil of rope beside him that he was pretending to be untangling just to look busy. His eyes drifted up to the sky every few minutes. No clouds. No gulls. Just the wide, open blue stretching in every direction.

Somewhere behind him, Carter was attempting to juggle two apples and a bottle of water while Kevin heckled him from the shade of the mast.

"You're gonna knock yourself out," Kevin called.

"You're just jealous of my raw talent," Carter replied, immediately dropping an apple and catching it with his foot like he meant to do it.

Kevin just shook his head. “Your raw talent’s gonna roll overboard.”

Hunt, leaning on the railing not far off, flicked his coin in the air and caught it with a snap. “Let it. Maybe the sea wants a snack.”

Peter turned his head slightly, eyeing Hunt’s coin again. Even in the dimmer sunlight, it caught the light in a way that made it look almost unreal—bright, detailed, way too pristine to just be some spare change.

He stood and wandered over, careful not to make it obvious he was staring.

“Something catch your eye?” Hunt asked, not even looking at him.

Peter glanced down, then back up. “That coin. It’s gold, right? Real?”

Hunt finally turned his head toward him, one brow raised. “It’s real. And it’s mine.”

“I’ve just… never seen one like that. Where’d you get it?”

Hunt spun it over his knuckles. “Found it. Traded for it. Doesn’t matter. Point is, it stays with me.”

Peter raised both hands. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”

Hunt nodded slowly, slipping the coin into a small leather pouch on his belt and cinching it shut. “Good.”

Peter lingered a moment, then looked back at the water. “Hey… earlier, when you were talking about that feeling. The watching thing. You ever actually see anything?”

Hunt didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he looked out over the water with a face that didn’t move much but said everything.

“Not directly,” he said finally. “But I’ve seen what happens after.”

Peter didn’t press. He didn’t want to. Not yet.

Instead, he joined Kevin under the mast. Kevin had found a deck of battered playing cards and was laying them out in some kind of half-finished pyramid. Carter wandered over and immediately flicked one out of place, collapsing the whole thing.

“Wow,” Kevin deadpanned. “You’re such a gift.”

Carter winked. “I know.”

The three of them sat in a loose triangle, lazily swapping stories about places they’d docked and things they’d seen. Peter didn’t have much to add, so he listened—half amazed, half suspicious of how much was probably made up.

Thomas strolled by now and then, checking lines or nodding at something that didn’t need his help. He seemed content letting everyone do their thing, but his presence had weight—like if anything did go sideways, he’d be the one to right the ship.

The wind picked up a bit, cooler now. The shadows stretched longer. Somewhere below deck, a creak echoed—probably the hull settling, or maybe the sea reminding them it was still there, patient and deep.

Peter sat back against the mast, arms crossed, letting the voices of the crew drift over him like background music. He still had questions—so many—but for the first time since stepping aboard, he didn’t feel completely out of place.

He was here.

And for now, that was enough.

June 4th, 8:32 PM

The sun had just kissed the ocean goodbye, bleeding molten gold across the water like a promise and a warning.

Flight 180 swayed gently beneath it, the wood of the deck warm from the last rays of the day. Shadows stretched long across the planks, then began to blur and fade as the light dipped lower, taking the heat with it. In the distance, the sky caught fire—fiery orange, deep plum, streaks of violet fanning out behind the silhouette of a lonely seabird coasting toward nowhere.

Peter stood at the port side rail, hands gripping the wood, salt air curling around his neck. His hair had gotten messier since this morning, wind-tangled and sticking to his forehead. He didn’t care. He couldn’t take his eyes off the sky.

Everything felt different. Bigger. Like the horizon had cracked open and he was finally seeing what was on the other side.

Behind him, the crew had slowed down. The hustle of departure was over, and now the ship was sailing smooth and steady. The vibe had shifted with the light—more mellow, more human.

Carter had claimed a spot on a crate nearby, chewing on jerky and tossing the empty wrapper over his shoulder like someone else would clean it up. His arms were folded behind his head, face tilted toward the sun’s afterglow.

Kevin, scribbling in his little notebook like he had to get a thought down before it escaped. His brow furrowed, lip caught between his teeth, but there was a spark in his eye like whatever he was writing wasn’t just notes—it was something good.

Hunt was doing his thing—half-lounging in a rope coil like it was a designer beanbag, legs dangling lazily off the side. He had a piece of dried mango in his mouth and was munching like he hadn’t had real food in weeks.

Thomas stood near the helm. He hadn't spoken since they’d left port, but his presence held weight. One foot on the rigging coil, arms crossed, steady as stone. He didn’t look worried. He looked… aware. Like a guy who knew this ocean’s every mood.

Peter exhaled slowly. It smelled different out here. Fresher, but wild. Like the scent of adventure came with a side of danger. He didn’t hate it.

A bell rang somewhere near the galley hatch.

Kevin snapped his notebook shut. “Dinner.”

Carter stretched with a groan. “Finally. Thought I was gonna have to gnaw on Hunt’s boots.”

“You wish,” Hunt replied without looking up.

Peter followed them down the narrow steps to the galley. The shift in air was immediate—warmer, cozier. A soft orange glow flickered from two old lanterns swinging above the table. The galley was cramped, but not uncomfortable. Wood walls lined with cabinets, pans hanging from hooks that clanked gently with the ship’s movement. A small stove burned at the far end, where Thomas was ladling stew into dented metal bowls like he was serving up treasure.

The smell hit Peter hard. Spices, broth, something like thyme, something like comfort.

Thomas nodded toward the bowls. “Take one. Sit. Eat.”

No one argued.

Peter took a seat between Hunt and Kevin, across from Carter, who was already blowing on his first spoonful like he hadn’t eaten in days.

Kevin balanced his bowl on one knee, posture casual. “Don’t ask what’s in it. Just eat.”

Peter dipped his spoon in and took a bite.

His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Okay, wait. This is… really good.”

Thomas gave a small smirk from behind the stove. “You’re welcome.”

Carter tapped his spoon against the rim of his bowl. “It’s not bad.”

“Don’t lie,” Kevin said. “You were drooling the second we stepped in.”

Carter threw a balled-up napkin at him.

Peter chuckled, watching them all. The way they moved around each other, talked like they’d been doing this forever. He still felt like an outsider—but the food helped.

Hunt elbowed Peter suddenly and nodded toward a ratty deck of cards sticking out from Kevin’s jacket pocket. “You ever played cards with him?”

Kevin raised an eyebrow. “You saying you want to lose again?”

“I’m saying you cheat with confidence,” Hunt grinned.

Kevin grinned back. “If I cheat so well you can’t prove it, is it really cheating?”

Peter laughed under his breath, surprised how natural it was to hear these guys joke around. “What game?”

“Whatever gets competitive enough to make Carter flip the table,” Kevin said.

“Lies,” Carter muttered. “That only happened once.”

“Twice,” Hunt corrected.

Thomas chimed in from the stove. “Three times.”

Peter smirked. “Sounds like I should start small.”

“You’ll fit in just fine,” Thomas said, passing by to set down another bowl.

It was a weird kind of warmth Peter felt sitting there—like the kind of comfort you don’t trust yet but can’t help leaning into. The stew was hot. The wood creaked around them. The sea rocked gently beneath the floor.

The last of the stew was scraped from the bowls, conversations lingering as lantern light flickered lower. The galley grew quieter, the clatter of spoons and the soft thuds of boots slowing as full bellies and the gentle sway of the ship started to lull everyone into that familiar end-of-day haze.

Carter leaned back in his seat with a satisfied groan, arms stretched wide. “I’m officially out of energy. Someone carry me to my bunk.”

“Someone throw him off the side,” Kevin muttered, stacking the bowls with mechanical ease.

Hunt didn’t even move, just tilted his head back and let his eyes shut. “Wake me up when the ship sinks.”

Thomas finished drying his hands and gave a low chuckle. “You all talk like we didn’t just spend the day floating around like lazy seabirds.”

“We floated vigorously, thank you,” Carter said, already halfway standing, stretching like he hadn’t moved in years.

One by one, they filed out of the galley, boots thudding softly on the wooden steps and floorboards. The air above deck had cooled significantly, and the dark had swallowed the sea whole. Stars blinked in the sky like they’d been waiting all day to come out and gossip.

Peter followed them, still feeling that strange warmth in his chest. He didn’t exactly belong yet—but he wasn’t just the new guy anymore, either. Not completely.

They made their way down a side corridor that opened into a narrow room tucked beneath the main deck. Bunks lined both sides—two stacked high along each wall. The space wasn’t fancy, but it was functional. Worn wood, dim lanterns nailed to the beams, and small lockers at the foot of each bed.

“This one’s mine,” Carter said, flopping into a bottom bunk like he was claiming territory. “Anyone touches my stuff, I throw them overboard.”

“No one wants your crusty socks, man,” Kevin shot back, already kicking off his boots and climbing into the top bunk above him.

Hunt took the top across from them, humming something off-key as he peeled off his jacket and used it like a blanket. “This one creaks less. I checked.”

Thomas took the far bunk near the back, setting his boots neatly beside it before sitting down to unbutton his shirt slowly, like a man with a ritual.

Peter hovered awkwardly for a second before Hunt jerked a thumb toward the empty lower bunk across from Thomas. “That one’s yours. For now.”

Peter gave a nod and set his things down—what little he had—before sinking onto the hammock. It wasn’t exactly plush, but after the day he’d had, it felt like heaven.

A few of the guys were already halfway to sleep. Carter was still muttering something about “being allergic to mornings,” while Kevin had turned to face the wall, hoodie hood pulled halfway over his head. Hunt was already snoring lightly, one arm dangling off the edge of his bunk like he’d melted into it.

Peter lay back, hands behind his head, eyes scanning the ceiling beams overhead. The wood groaned softly with the ship’s rhythm, every creak and sway reminding him he wasn’t on land anymore.

Across from him, Thomas sat quietly for a moment, rolling up his sleeves and rubbing his hands together before finally lying down.

“You’ll get used to the sounds,” he said, voice low. “The water has a heartbeat out here. You’ll learn it.”

Peter nodded, more to himself than anyone else. He pulled the thin blanket over his chest and stared into the dark, listening.

The ship whispered around him.

And in the quiet between everyone else’s breathing, Peter swore he could hear it—the distant hum of the ocean, soft and strange. Like a voice just under the surface, too quiet to understand.

It didn’t scare him exactly.

Not yet.

But it didn’t feel like nothing.

He closed his eyes and exhaled.

Tomorrow would be real. Tomorrow would be the sea.

And whatever waited out there… it would have to wait until morning.

June 5th, 1:17 AM

Peter really couldn't sleep, no matter how hard he tried.

The steady sway of Flight 180 cradled the night like a soft lullaby. The wooden planks beneath Peter’s boots hummed faintly with the rhythm of the sea’s gentle pulse, while the cool, salty air wrapped around him in quiet whispers. The usual hum of the ship’s crew was swallowed by the stillness—only the occasional breath or sigh punctuated the calm.

Peter had tried to fall asleep, curling into the thin blanket of his hammock and letting his eyes close. But something felt...off. Not loud. Not obvious. Just a strange weight in the air. The room wasn’t completely silent—far from it.

Carter mumbled something incoherent in his sleep, his words slurred and angry, like he was stuck in a fistfight that never ended. Every so often, he jerked slightly, the ropes of his hammock creaking under his twitchy movements.

Kevin was a snorer, loud and chaotic. His breathing came in uneven bursts—sometimes a gurgle, sometimes a honk, sometimes dead silence for three long seconds that always made Peter wonder if this was the time he'd stop breathing. Then it would restart with a wheeze and a flinch.

Thomas lay perfectly still in the far corner; his hands folded across his chest like a knight laid to rest. His face didn’t twitch, didn’t shift—he looked carved from marble. If it weren’t for the soft rise and fall of his chest, Peter might’ve thought he wasn’t breathing at all.

But it was Hunt’s absence that pulled Peter from his sleeplessness and made him feel a little less tired.

His hammock was empty, swaying gently as if someone had just left. The blanket still held the ghost of his shape, rumpled and pushed to one side. Peter sat up slowly, eyes narrowing. A low hum danced at the edge of hearing—too faint to place. Not mechanical. Not wind. It felt like...a melody. Not words, just a feeling. And it was calling.

Peter grabbed the lantern at the foot of his hammock, lit it with a flick of flint, and crept softly up the stairs into the chill of the night.

Outside, the air was sharper than expected—no breeze stirred the sails, which hung slack and heavy above. The stars, usually sharp and sparkling, were dimmed as if the sky itself was holding its breath. The deck was empty, still, except for one shadowed figure.

By the port railing, Hunt sat cross-legged, cloaked in shadow, his figure calm but alert. One hand lay softly on his knee; the other dangled casually over the edge of the ship.

Peter’s eyes dropped down past Hunt’s hand to the water below. There, just above the surface, was a torso floating in the dark sea—only visible from the collarbone down to the stomach. The head was blocked from view by the ship’s hull, and Peter couldn’t tell if the figure had legs or if they drifted somewhere deeper beneath the waves.

The skin was a warm tan, glistening faintly with the wet sheen of the ocean. One hand rested easily on the ship’s side, fingers curling gently around the wood’s edge. The other was lifted, palm open and waiting, as if in quiet expectation.

Peter’s breath hitched. This wasn’t some blurry shadow or a trick of the moonlight. It was a living, breathing presence.

Hunt reached into his coat with slow, deliberate movements and pulled out a coin that gleamed brighter than anything Peter had seen on the ship—a fresh gold piece, smooth and flawless like it had just been minted. Not the old coin he always played with.

With practiced ease, Hunt placed the coin into the waiting palm below.

Next, he produced a conch shell, its spiraled surface alive with fiery swirls of orange and red that seemed to pulse gently in the dim light. He laid it beside the coin with a reverence that suggested deep meaning.

Peter braced for the figure to slip silently away beneath the waves. But it stayed, still and calm.

Then, the voice came.

Rich, deep, undeniably male—a voice that carried warmth and youth, but with a certain gravity, like a guy who’s been through his share of storms but hasn’t lost his spark.

“You always bring me the nicest treasures, Hunt.” The voice was steady, almost teasing, but with an unmistakable tenderness beneath it.

Hunt’s eyes softened. “Only the best for you. You deserve that much.”

The figure gave a soft, amused sound. “I don’t know what I did to deserve a pirate with such good taste.”

“You existed,” Hunt murmured. “That’s enough.”

A moment passed. Then the figure’s hand dipped beneath the surface and reemerged, revealing something shimmering—a bracelet.

Coral strands in fiery reds and burnt oranges wove together in a delicate yet sturdy design, each piece catching the lantern’s glow like tiny embers. It looked like it had been crafted by the sea itself, made from things both ancient and alive.

Hunt took the bracelet gently, sliding it onto his wrist as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

“It’s beautiful,” Hunt breathed, eyes fixed on the coral masterpiece.

“You earned it,” the figure replied softly. “For every coin and every shell you bring. For every moment you steal away to see me.”

Hunt’s smile was slow, almost shy. “I wish we had more moments.”

The figure’s voice grew quieter, a little wistful. “Me too. But the ocean… it’s not always kind. Sometimes it keeps me locked away.”

Peter’s heart pounded as Hunt leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “Do you remember the songs?”

A soft chuckle floated from above the water. “How could I forget? You sing them like you mean every word.”

“I do mean every word.”

There was a pause. Then Hunt asked, voice trembling just slightly, “Do you still sing them when I’m not around?”

“I sing them every time I miss you.”

Hunt's lips parted like he wanted to say more, but he just looked down at the bracelet on his wrist, fingers brushing it gently.

“Then I’ll keep singing,” he said finally. “Even louder next time.”

The figure gave a small laugh, one that lit up the water around him. “Good. If you do, I’ll race to you, faster than the tide.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

The figure’s hand lifted in a slow wave, fingers brushing the coin and shell as if saying goodbye for now.

“But you have to call,” the figure added, voice a little stronger. “If you want me to come back.”

“You’ll come back,” Hunt said, voice quiet but certain. “You always do.”

Another pause. Then, so softly Peter almost missed it:

“I never really leave.”

Then, as silently as it had come, the torso slipped beneath the waves. The hands pulled away from the ship’s railing, disappearing into the dark embrace of the ocean without a ripple.

Hunt rose, fingers brushing the coral bracelet on his wrist. He didn’t look toward Peter, didn’t seem to notice the young man watching from the shadows.

Instead, he pulled his coat tighter and walked quietly toward the other side of the ship, fading into the darkness like a ghost.

He stayed like that for what felt like forever—still as the night, heart pounding in his throat. Eventually, Peter peeled himself away from the shadows and crept back below deck, lantern swinging low in his grasp.

But the quiet down there wasn’t as peaceful anymore.

The creaks in the wood felt louder now, like whispers he couldn’t translate. Every snore, every shift of a crewmate’s body in their hammock was magnified by the silence in his mind, a mind still echoing with that voice.

He climbed into his own hammock slowly, every movement deliberate and slow like he might break something if he moved too fast. He curled onto his side, pulling the blanket up to his chin like it might shield him from what he just saw. But sleep? Nowhere nearby.

Peter’s eyes stayed open, fixed on the swinging lantern across the room.

That voice—rich, soft, familiar—looped through his head like a song he used to love and forgot until it played again.

“If you call... If you sing...”

But it wasn’t just the words. It was the way Hunt looked at him. Like he wasn’t just seeing the figure in the water—but knowing him. There was something there. Something deep. Something… soft. Vulnerable.

The way Hunt’s voice dropped when he asked if he remembered the songs. The way the boy in the water laughed like it made his whole night. The way he said, “Then I’ll race to you,” like he meant it with everything in him.

Peter realized then—it wasn’t just some meeting.

It was a reunion.

And maybe not the first one.

His chest ached with the weight of it. Not fear, exactly. Something else. Something that tugged at the space between wonder and worry. He had witnessed something so personal it didn’t feel like he was supposed to have seen it.

And yet, a part of him… was grateful he did.

Because it meant that Hunt—quiet, blunt, sometimes distant Hunt—had a heart so full of warmth that he was willing to offer gold and song to the ocean just to see him again.

And that boy... whoever he was… he wasn’t some ghost, some haunting siren or mythical creature.

He was real.

He was kind.

He knew Hunt.

Peter turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling, the ship gently rocking beneath him.

He wondered how long this had been going on. How many nights Hunt had slipped away like this. How many songs had been sung, how many coins exchanged. How long it had taken for trust to grow between sea and ship.

The bracelet on Hunt’s wrist—it wasn’t just a thank you. It was a promise.

A promise that if Hunt ever called again, he’d come back.

And something about that settled into Peter’s bones. Like knowing that magic—real magic—didn’t always come with thunder or storms or curses. Sometimes it came in soft laughter. In whispered words. In a flame-colored shell and a coin placed with care into waiting hands.

Eventually, the room grew quiet again. Peter’s heartbeat slowed. But he didn’t sleep.

Not for a long, long time.

Because even though the waves outside whispered lullabies, and the ship rocked gentle as ever… his mind was adrift.

And somewhere out in the dark, under the stars and above the deep, Peter knew someone was floating—watching the sky, maybe smiling, maybe still hearing that song.

And Peter?

He was listening, too.

Chapter Text

June 5th, 6:58 AM

Morning came slowly, dragging itself across the deck of Flight 180 like a hungover ghost. Sunlight bled in through the tiny cracks in the wood above Peter’s hammock, painting dusty stripes across his blanket and into his half-lidded eyes.

He blinked against the light, throat dry, heart still a little unsettled. The memory of the night before clung to his skin like salt—sharp, cold, and impossible to ignore.

That voice. That bracelet. That thing—no, boy—in the water.

Peter sat up slowly, glancing around the dim cabin. Kevin was already gone, probably up top making snarky comments about clouds or Hunt’s breakfast choices. Carter was still passed out, sprawled diagonally across his hammock like someone had thrown him there. Thomas, ever the early riser, had folded his blanket with borderline military precision and disappeared. Hunt’s hammock? Empty.

Of course.

Peter dressed quickly, moving with the quiet urgency of someone trying not to let their thoughts get too loud. The second his boots hit the deck, he glanced around—not for Hunt, but for distractions. Opportunities. Something, anything that could help him make sense of what he’d seen.

Breakfast was being passed around, some kind of half-burnt toast and salted meat situation, and Peter took a plate just to keep from looking suspicious. Kevin elbowed him at the railing.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he said through a mouthful. “Have weird dreams last night, or did you always look like that in the morning?”

Peter gave a weak laugh, staring a little too long at the ocean. “Guess I’m still waking up.”

Kevin shrugged and wandered off, muttering something about Carter’s snoring being a war crime.

But Peter didn’t eat. His mind was spinning.

He needed information. Not guesses, not ghost stories—but actual answers. And if no one else was gonna talk about that thing in the water, he’d find another way.

He started in the captain’s quarters when no one was around—Thomas’s collection of maps and books were tucked neatly into built-in shelves, all protected under waxy covers and worn leather. Most of it was about tides, trade winds, and piratey war tactics, but tucked between a pair of old weather logs, Peter found something different.

A book with no title. Thin. Handwritten.

He flipped it open carefully.

Sketches. Notes. Descriptions of sea creatures. Some with long necks and fins, others with glowing eyes and teeth like glass. Some... with human torsos.

Peter’s heart kicked in his chest.

The drawing was more delicate than the others—almost reverent. Inked in fine blue lines, it showed a creature with a fully human upper half: broad shoulders tapering to a strong, elegant torso. The chest, arms, and head were undeniably human, with slight webbing under the arms and gill slits trailing down both sides of the ribcage. The posture was upright, confident—like someone who belonged on both land and sea.

But below the waist?

The body melted into a flowing, seamless tail. Long and graceful, the mer-form was built more like a dancer than a monster—fluid and sleek, with soft anatomical transitions from human skin to scale. No harsh segmentation or monstrous spikes, just smooth musculature and delicate fins that trailed behind like silk ribbons.

Where legs would have been, the body extended into a wide, fan-like tail fin that split into elegant lobes, fringed like kelp swaying underwater. The back view revealed fine details—muscular ridges along the spine, finlets sprouting where hips would be, and tendrils that seemed to function like stabilizers or feelers in deep currents.

Bioluminescent marks weren’t present in this sketch, but faint dots along the fluke suggested the potential for it. The text scribbled alongside the image read:

• “Human upper structure suggests high intelligence—possibly social.”

• “Tail designed for agility, not brute force—evades rather than confronts.”

• “Fin structure similar to betta fish: ornate, flexible, fragile looking but fast.”

• “Spinal flexibility likely enhanced—note elongated vertebrae toward lower back.”

• “Capture at all costs—useful visions."

And then, almost like a warning etched in smaller, hastier handwriting at the bottom:

“Too beautiful to fear. That’s how they get you.”

Over the next few hours, he kept digging—scouring books in storage crates below deck, flipping through sailor journals, even peeking into Hunt’s stuff when no one was watching. But nothing gave him more than that single note. No name. No history. Just the same quiet mystery swimming in circles around his thoughts.

And all the while, Hunt acted normal. Maybe a little more relaxed than usual. He talked with Thomas at the wheel, traded sarcastic jabs with Kevin, even helped Carter fix a broken pulley with his usual chill shrug-and-smirk energy.

But Peter watched him closely.

Too closely.

When Hunt rolled his sleeve up to tie a rope, Peter caught a glimpse of the bracelet—the coral still vibrant, catching the sun like fire trapped in glass.

Hunt noticed the look. Their eyes met.

Peter looked away fast.

Later that morning, while the crew gathered on deck for drinks and dumb stories, Peter stayed just out of reach, flipping through a travel log he’d found wedged in a drawer. It had a bunch of nonsense notes, but one passage caught his eye.

"Some sailors say if you give the sea something beautiful, it gives something back. But what it gives you is never free. The sea remembers. The sea keeps score."

Peter closed the book slowly, glancing out at the ocean.

He didn’t know what Hunt had given the sea. Or what he’d gotten in return. But he was sure of one thing now:

Whatever deal had been made... Peter had witnessed it.
And he couldn’t unsee it.

Not now. Not ever.

June 5th, 9:03 AM

Peter sat hunched in the corner of the cargo hold, a small lantern flickering beside him. The old journal felt heavy in his hands—not just physically, but in the way every page buzzed with mystery and old-world eeriness. He ran his fingers over the sketch again: a creature with a human upper half, elegant and strong, and a sweeping mermaid tail like liquid silk. But it was the handwritten line beneath it that snagged in his brain and refused to let go:

“Some sailors say if you give the sea something beautiful, it gives something back. But what it gives you is never free. The sea remembers. The sea keeps score.”

He closed the book, eyebrows knitted. That line had weight. But... something about it felt off.

Later, up on deck, Thomas was fiddling with the rigging, sleeves rolled up and attention fixed skyward. The wind teased at his curls, and the man looked like he belonged more to the ocean than land.

Peter cleared his throat. “Hey, Thomas. You got a sec?”

Thomas didn’t turn, but his voice came easy. “For you? Always. What’s up?”

“I was reading one of the journals down in storage. Came across a line that said, ‘If you give the sea something beautiful, it gives something back. But it’s never free. The sea keeps score.’ Ever heard of that?”

This time Thomas did turn, slowly. His expression was somewhere between amusement and disappointment. “That line?”

“Yeah.”

“That line is pure, unfiltered, poetic nonsense.”

Peter blinked. “Oh.”

Thomas sighed, leaning back against a barrel. “Stuff like that gets passed around in books to sound dramatic. Old sailors liked to make the ocean seem like some judgmental god or mysterious lover. Truth is? The sea doesn’t care. It doesn’t trade, it doesn’t remember, and it sure as hell doesn’t keep score. It just... is.”

Peter looked back down, a little embarrassed. “So none of it’s true?”

Thomas gave a small shrug. “The only part of those journals that holds any real weight is the anatomy sketches—like the one you’re probably thinking about. The mermaid design? Human torso, long tail, bioluminescent markings, that kind of thing? That wasn’t part of the original text. Someone added that in recent years after a few sightings. That’s where the science comes in. The rest? Old ghost stories.”

Peter nodded slowly, swallowing his questions. “Right. Got it. Just curious.”

Thomas clapped him on the shoulder with a small grin. “Curiosity’s fine. Just don’t let fantasy rewrite the facts. We’re out here to stay alive, not rewrite mythologies.”

Peter gave a weak smile, but inside, something still didn’t sit right. If it was all fake... why did that thing in the water feel so real?

Thomas’s words echoed in Peter’s head long after he left the deck.

"The sea doesn’t trade. It doesn’t remember."
Maybe. But Peter wasn’t convinced.

He ducked below deck again, back to the belly of Flight 180. The journals were where he’d left them—stacked unevenly in a wooden crate near the wall. Most were brittle, written in sprawling cursive or smudged ink. He flipped through a few more, fingers trembling just slightly with that weird cocktail of fear and fascination.

He wasn’t looking for another poetic line. He wanted details. Specifics. Signs.

He found a partial map inked into the margins of a logbook—someone had scrawled jagged coastlines and marked “unexplained sightings” with shaky X’s. One was close to their current route. Another log mentioned “a dark figure beneath the ship” that “sang like a boy and wept like a ghost.”

Peter felt his heart seize up. A boy.

He stuffed that page into his pocket. Quietly. Carefully.

The sound of boots up the stairs made him freeze. He flattened himself behind a stack of crates as Kevin walked past the hallway, muttering to himself about “how these dumb maps never match up with the sky.” He didn’t see Peter.

Once the coast was clear, Peter made his way to the ship's tiny library-slash-supply-closet. It smelled like damp pages and salt. He pulled out an oceanography book—modern and dusty, probably untouched since Hunt last reorganized. He scanned the chapter on marine life. Nothing about glowing tails or humanoid anatomy.

But then, tucked between two pages, he found a folded sketch. Not as detailed as the one in the journal—but it showed the same form. A human upper body. A wide, flowing tail. And those glowing spots along the back and arms.

Peter ran his thumb over it, mind racing. 'So, someone else on this ship knows.'

Before he could process more, a sudden clanging of a bell echoed from above deck. Carter’s voice followed, loud and annoyed:

“Lunch, losers! Get your sea legs up here before Hunt eats everything!”

Peter shoved the sketch in his waistband and kicked the books back into place. His heartbeat hadn’t slowed in the slightest.

He wasn't hungry.

He was obsessed.

June 5th, 1:13 PM

Peter slid into his usual spot at the long mess table, casually kicking his boots up under the bench like he hadn’t been digging through water-stained books and half-rotted scrolls all morning. He slapped on a lazy smile, nodding at the crew like everything was chill. Totally normal lunch break. Definitely not trying to spy on everyone while pretending to be a functioning human being.

Carter was mid-rant about how the ship's stew always “smelled like hot barnacles but tasted like weirdly good soup,” while Kevin stirred his own bowl like he was trying to summon a portal.

Thomas munched on a crusty piece of bread, while still standing next to the stove.

Peter’s eyes drifted to Hunt, seated across from him, mostly silent, poking half-heartedly at his food. The man hadn’t said a word since Peter sat down.

That’s when Carter’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. His eyes narrowed like a hawk spotting something shiny.

“Hold up. What’s that on your wrist?”

Hunt looked up, barely lifting his arm. “What?”

“That.” Carter pointed directly. “That thing. That’s new.”

Hunt gave the world’s most unbothered shrug. “Just a bracelet.”

Kevin squinted across the table. “No way that’s just a bracelet. That thing looks handcrafted by Poseidon’s artsy niece. Where’d you even get that?”

Peter leaned forward slightly, pretending to sip his water, eyes locked on the flash of red, orange, and gold winding around Hunt’s wrist. Coral and sea glass. Familiar colors. Too familiar.

Hunt didn’t answer right away.

“It was... a gift,” he said finally, his voice flat but even.

Carter raised a brow. “Ooooh. A gift, huh? From who? Someone onshore? Some port girl with a knack for shell crafts?”

Kevin snorted. “Nah, man. That looks way too fancy for some tourist trap trinket. That’s like... custom sea-forged jewelry. Magical Etsy-tier.”

Carter leaned in dramatically. “You got a secret admirer? Or—wait, is it cursed? Be honest. Is that why the stew’s been tasting better? Did you sell your soul for flavor?”

Thomas let out a quiet sigh. “You two are relentless.”

Carter grinned. “Hey, it’s a vibe. Just saying, Hunt, you don’t strike me as a fashion accessories kind of guy.”

Kevin nodded. “Yeah, where’s the gruff loner aesthetic? Now you’re rocking glitter coral? What’s next, matching earrings?”

Peter tried not to laugh, but honestly, the mental image was doing numbers.

Hunt stared at the table. His hand had slipped beneath it now, out of sight. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Sure, sure,” Carter said, smirking. “You just started randomly accessorizing out of nowhere. Totally normal.”

Kevin tilted his head. “Did it come with a whispering voice too? Maybe a ghostly melody? Maybe a dream where the ocean tells you you're its chosen one?”

Peter froze slightly, remembering the voice from the night before. The warmth of it. The way it said Hunt’s name like it meant something.

Hunt didn’t laugh. Not even a twitch of amusement.

“Okay, okay,” Carter said, throwing up his hands. “We’re just playing. Chill out. You’re getting all tense like we insulted your boyfriend or something.”

That did it.

Hunt’s jaw clenched. “Enough.”

The word wasn’t loud, but it was sharp. His eyes flicked to Carter like a switchblade. “It’s just a bracelet. You don’t need to make a damn comedy show out of it.”

Kevin blinked. “Whoa, alright, dude. We’re just messing.”

“You don’t know anything about it,” Hunt said tightly, standing up so fast the bench scraped harsh across the floorboards. His voice was calm in that scary, shaky way like he was holding back something worse. “Just drop it.”

And just like that, he was gone. Boots heavy against the wood, door swinging shut behind him hard enough to rattle the silverware.

The table went quiet.

Peter’s heartbeat was like a war drum in his chest.

Carter blinked. “Okay, wow. Over a bracelet?”

Kevin leaned back. “Kinda weird if you ask me.”

Thomas just shook his head. “Let him cool off.”

But Peter wasn’t watching them.

He was staring at that bracelet before it vanished under Hunt’s sleeve.

Because he had seen it before. Glimmering in the moonlight. Wrapped around the wrist of someone who didn’t belong on land.

And now, the pieces were starting to fit together.

Chapter Text

June 5th, 1:18 PM

The midday sun was high, casting long shadows across the deck, but the air felt colder than it should’ve.

Peter lingered by the railing after Hunt stormed off, the laughter of the crew echoing behind him like a sound from a different world. The sharp slap of boots against wood faded as Hunt disappeared below deck, his bracelet flashing once in the light before vanishing with him.

No one really talked about it after that. Carter cracked another joke to fill the silence. Kevin leaned into his bowl like nothing happened. But Peter felt it—the shift. The crack.

He had touched a nerve.

And now, he was sure: the boy in the water, the bracelet, the gifts—Hunt was tied to it all, and not just metaphorically. There was something under the surface, something older and deeper than Hunt was ready to admit.

Peter’s stomach knotted as he turned away from the sea.

He had to be careful now.

Had to dig deeper without looking like he was digging at all.

Because if Hunt was hiding something this important, Peter needed to know why.

And he needed to know fast.

The rest of lunch passed like molasses. Peter stuck around just long enough to scrape his bowl clean, throwing in a few nods and tired chuckles to stay under the radar. Hunt never came back.

By the time the sun started its slow dip toward the horizon, most of the crew had scattered. Thomas headed up to check the sails, Kevin and Carter got roped into cleaning buckets of squid (to Carter’s endless whining), and Peter slipped quietly below deck—mind sharp, heartbeat loud in his ears.

He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for. But Hunt’s outburst? That wasn’t just embarrassment. That was fear. And guilt. The kind that leaves shadows in people’s eyes.

He eased open the door to the crew’s quarters, careful not to let it creak. Inside, the space was dim and quiet, lit by only a sliver of gold light cutting through the cracks in the boards. Hammocks rocked gently. The air smelled like salt and worn leather and sea-soaked wood.

Peter paused at Hunt’s bunk.

No bracelet. No coat. Nothing sketchy at first glance. But the bottom trunk tucked under Hunt’s hammock had a dent in the corner—like it had been kicked hard, multiple times. Peter crouched.

He gave it a tug.

Locked.

Of course it was.

He scanned the area, chewing his lip. A tiny glint caught his eye just beside Hunt’s mattress—wedged between the boards. A key. Simple brass. No tag.

Peter’s pulse jumped.

Carefully, quietly, he slipped it into the lock. Click.

The lid creaked open slowly, revealing a pile of neatly folded clothes on top. Nothing suspicious at first. But beneath them—hidden beneath a layer of worn shirts and a bundled scarf—was a book.

A leather-bound logbook.

Old. The spine was cracked, the edges water-damaged. But someone had tried to take care of it. Peter pulled it free, heart thudding, and flipped it open to the first page.

No name.

Just a date.

"One year ago — First meeting."

Peter’s breath hitched.

Peter turned the page. More entries. Each one dated, detailed. Some were short, almost diary-like—"Saw him again. Clear skies. He smiled." Others were longer, more like dreams spilled in ink. Descriptions of a voice beneath the waves. Of songs sung. Of quiet hours spent drifting in silence. One entry just read: “He surfaced without a gift. Just to see me.”

Then, near the middle of the book, Peter stopped cold.

A sketch.

Drawn in bold, hurried strokes, but the detail was undeniable. A boy—bare from the waist up, leaning casually against the side of a ship. His short brown hair was tousled, damp, sticking up at odd angles like he'd just surfaced. Water droplets clung to his neck and shoulders, and though the shading obscured his face, there was something weirdly human about him. Too human.

And then there was the tail.

It didn’t look like the soft blue mermaid stuff from fairytales. This was wild—colored like fire, brilliant reds and oranges with streaks of glowing gold, swirling into sharp, flame-like patterns that curled along the edges like the sea had birthed a wildfire.

Around one wrist: a bracelet. Coral and sea glass, same as the one Hunt had worn.

Peter’s pulse thudded. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

This wasn’t some made-up fantasy. This wasn’t legend.

This was real. And Hunt had drawn it.

Beneath the sketch, in Hunt’s careful handwriting, it said:

“He never asks for much. Only that I return. That I remember. That I sing.”

Peter’s grip tightened on the book’s spine.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t new. Hunt had been meeting that boy for a year. A whole year. And he’d kept it locked up—hidden—from the rest of the crew. From him.

Peter flipped the page, breath shallow, but stopped short when he heard it:

Footsteps.

Slow. Approaching.

He jerked upright, snapped the book closed, and shoved it back into the trunk. Clothes got thrown back in place just in time. The key slipped into his pocket right as the door creaked open.

Kevin poked his head in, brows raised. “Dude, you get eaten by your coat or what?”

Peter turned, schooling his face into something normal. “Just had to dig it out. Found it.”

Kevin nodded like he didn’t care either way. “C’mon. We’re getting deck duty again and Carter already bailed.”

“Lucky me,” Peter muttered, stepping away from the trunk.

He didn’t look back as he followed Kevin topside.

But his mind was already on the next move.

That fire-tailed boy was real.

Peter shut the logbook with a jolt, heart hammering. His hands hovered over the cover for a second longer before he finally shoved it back under the bunk, fingers trembling slightly. It felt like he'd uncovered something he wasn't supposed to—something buried on purpose.

This wasn’t some casual sailor’s journal. This was obsession. Documentation. A pattern.

He stepped back from Hunt’s bunk like it might bite him.

“The first time I saw him… the sea went quiet.”

That line rang in Peter’s head, looping like a whisper. The descriptions—so specific. The way Hunt had recorded every encounter with that boy in the water, down to the shimmer of his tail and the way he moved. Peter could still see it in his mind—short brown hair, a tail like fire, bright red and orange patterns curling like smoke.

There were even notes on the sound of the sea around him. Changes in the waves. The wind. The temperature.

“Something always shifts before he appears.”

Peter gritted his teeth and pulled the curtain shut on the bunk. He needed air.

As he stepped into the hall, the ship groaned beneath his feet, wood shifting under pressure. Everything felt tighter now. The walls. The deck. The crew.

He walked the ship slowly, like retracing a crime scene. Kevin cracking jokes on the quarterdeck, Carter bickering with Hunt over rope tension, Thomas reading near the helm. All so normal on the surface.

But Peter's eyes kept sliding back to Hunt.

The way Hunt always sat near the edge of the ship, even when there was no breeze.

The way he vanished during night shifts, reappearing with no explanation.

The way he flinched when Carter mentioned the bracelet—not scared, but guarded. Possessive.

He wasn’t just hiding something. He was planning around it.

Peter ducked behind a row of barrels, watching Hunt out of sight. Every instinct he had buzzed in his chest like a warning bell.

This wasn’t just superstition. It wasn’t just some sailor’s story about a merman and moonlight.

This was something deeper. Something ritualistic.

And Hunt—cool, quiet, reliable Hunt—was right in the middle of it.

Peter didn’t know what this creature was or what it wanted.

But Hunt?

Hunt did.

And he’d been keeping it secret for a year.

June 5th, 10:37 PM

Dinner on Flight 180 hit like a soft reset: the clatter of bowls, the murmur of voices, the scent of stew thick in the air. Wooden spoons scraped against the sides of tin pots as the crew dug in, hungry and sun-worn.

Peter settled into his usual spot near the center of the table, eyes flitting across the familiar faces. Kevin was busy dissecting a chunk of something vaguely fish-adjacent. Thomas sat with his sleeves rolled up and his shirt half unbuttoned, casually munching on bread like he’d fought it into submission. Carter was already talking with his mouth full. Hunt, as always, stayed quiet near the edge.

Peter kept his hands steady and his smile easy, like he wasn’t thinking about the hidden logbook tucked beneath his mattress. Like he hadn’t just read Hunt’s exact handwriting describing a fire-colored tail and eyes “as deep as the sea and just as dangerous.”

Like he hadn’t been watching Hunt all day, clocking the way he touched the bracelet when he thought no one was looking.

Red, orange, and gold coral and sea glass—strung into a smooth pattern that flickered in the low lantern light.

Peter saw it, even now, catching glints off Hunt’s wrist between bites of stew.

Kevin broke the easy silence first, voice playful. “So, Hunt… you ever gonna tell us where that fancy beach jewelry came from?”

Hunt didn’t look up, just kept spooning stew like nothing had been said. “It’s not that interesting.”

Thomas smirked. “Looks handcrafted. You pick it up at one of those romantic moonlit coves? Maybe trade it for a kiss?”

Carter jumped in with a laugh. “Or maybe he’s secretly part sea-dude and that’s his royal mermaid badge. Next storm, we find him flipping overboard and vanishing with the dolphins.”

Peter laughed along with the others, but only half-heartedly. He kept watching Hunt—close. Every time the bracelet was mentioned, Hunt’s grip on his spoon shifted ever so slightly. His jaw tightened, then relaxed again, like he was smoothing himself back into shape.

“Nah, nah,” Kevin leaned forward dramatically. “I bet it’s cursed. He wears it so it doesn’t haunt the rest of us. Big hero moves.”

Hunt finally cracked a dry smile. “If it was cursed, I’d let it haunt you first.”

That got a solid laugh. The tension defused just a notch, enough for Hunt to relax a little in his seat.

Carter snorted. “Bro’s been wearing it like it's a wedding ring. Must be important.”

Peter nearly choked on a bite of bread. He looked up fast, expecting Hunt to snap or walk. But instead, Hunt just gave a one-shouldered shrug, keeping his expression carefully neutral.

“It’s just something I found,” he said. “I liked it. That’s all.”

“Found it, huh?” Thomas said with a raised eyebrow. “In the middle of the sea? Just... floating around?”

“Yup.”

Everyone seemed to accept that or at least stop pushing. The conversation slipped into something else—old port gossip, an embarrassing story about Kevin tripping over a bucket—but Peter barely listened.

His gaze returned to Hunt’s wrist, to the flicker of glass and coral.
The notes said, “first meeting.” Not “just found it.”
There was more. There was so much more.

And Peter intended to find it.

But for now, he ate quietly, smiling, laughing with the others—his ears open, his eyes sharp.

Because the sea wasn’t the only one keeping score.

The sky had melted into ink by the time dinner wrapped. The crew’s laughter faded into low hums and yawns as one by one; they drifted off—some to their hammocks, others to late-night deck duties under the watch of lazy stars.

Peter lingered by the edge of the table, pretending to nurse the last of his tea. In truth, his brain was sprinting laps.

That bracelet.

The logbook.

Hunt’s twitchy smile.

It was all screaming suspicious and Peter didn’t need to be a sea-worn pirate to know when something stank worse than last week’s salted cod.

He stretched, casual-like, then slipped away from the lantern glow and into the cooler dark of the hallway, moving toward the crew’s quarters with quiet steps. Every creak of the ship’s old wood felt ten times louder at night, but he knew the rhythm now—when to step wide, when to land soft.

Back in his hammock, Peter lay still, eyes on the ceiling, mind very much not still.

The fire-colored tail from the logbook danced behind his eyes, flickering like the patterns Hunt had written about.
The boy from the water… he wasn’t just some magical fluke. Hunt knew him. Had for a year.
And Hunt lied.

Peter turned over slowly, facing the bulkhead, hand resting under his pillow where the hidden logbook now lived. He hadn’t even read all of it yet, hadn’t dared to flip too far without risking noise. But what he’d seen was enough.

Too much, even.

So now what?

He couldn’t just ask Hunt. Hunt would shut him down faster than Carter could start a fight. Kevin was sharp, but way too snarky to keep anything low-key. Thomas? Maybe... but Thomas had already dismissed the sea-boy legends earlier like they were fairy tales for bored sailors.

No. If Peter wanted answers, he’d have to keep digging solo.

His plan started forming, slow and deliberate.

Step one: Wait until the next time Hunt leaves his bunk late at night. He’d done it before. Peter knew the rhythm now. If he could tail him—carefully—he might see where he goes.
Step two: Check Hunt’s cabin. Properly this time. If the bracelet was a gift, there might be more—clues, tokens, something.
Step three: Keep acting normal. Friendly. Chill. Even if his insides were turning into knots and conspiracy theories.

Peter smirked faintly into the dark, just to himself.

He’d always been curious.

But now?

Now he was obsessed.

A tail like fire, a secret boy beneath the waves, a hidden connection—and a crewmate who clearly knew way more than he let on.

Peter rolled onto his back, letting the gentle sway of Flight 180 lull his body even if his mind refused to rest.

Tomorrow, the game would continue.

And this time, Peter was playing to win.

Chapter Text

June 6th, 2:01 AM

The next night, the ocean was glassy and black—reflecting only scraps of moonlight like scattered secrets.

Peter waited.

Pretended to sleep, even tucked one arm over his face like he was deep in dreamland, but his ears were wide open.

The ship creaked. Someone coughed. Kevin mumbled something about "stupid ghost jellyfish" in his sleep. All the usual sounds.

And then—

Soft footsteps.

Deliberate. Careful.

Peter cracked one eye open, just barely. Hunt was slipping from his hammock, pulling on his coat with practiced ease. No sound. No fuss. Like he’d done this a hundred times before.

Peter’s pulse jumped.

This was it.

He counted to ten—slow and silent—then followed.

Bare feet. No lantern. Just the dim silver cast of the moon through the ship’s upper cracks and the low orange flicker of a dying sconce on the wall.

He stayed low, crouched behind barrels and support beams as Hunt moved down the hall. His silhouette ghosted toward the staircase leading above deck. Peter padded behind, keeping his distance, praying to every sea god that the boards wouldn’t betray him with a squeak.

Once on deck, Hunt moved toward the stern. Peter ducked behind a crate, peeking just enough to see.

Hunt paused at the railing. The same spot from before.

Peter’s breath caught.

The ocean looked endless, flat and void, but Hunt wasn’t looking at the sea—he was listening. Still. Focused. Like he was waiting for something to arrive on the wind.

Peter crept closer, hugging the wall, until he could hear the faintest shuffling of Hunt’s coat.

Then—

A glint of gold.

Hunt pulled something from inside his jacket.

A shell.

It gleamed softly in the moonlight—bright orange and gold, with those familiar swirling patterns. The same one Peter had seen passed into the hands of that strange boy in the water.

Peter nearly gasped.

He backed up, one slow step, heart hammering—

Snap.

A loose plank gave under his heel.

Hunt’s head jerked toward the sound. Sharp. Eyes narrowed.

“Who’s there?” he called, voice suddenly tight and serious.

Peter ducked low behind a post, heart doing the cha-cha against his ribs.

Don’t breathe. Don’t move.

Hunt stepped forward slowly. His boots tapped once on the wood, then stopped.

He scanned the shadows. Waited.

Peter didn’t dare peek. He was one wrong inhale from blowing it.

After a long, tense silence, Hunt exhaled and turned back to the railing. He lifted the shell to his mouth—slow and careful—and blew into it.

No sound came out.

But Peter felt something.

Like a pulse in the air. A faint tremor through the deck. Like the ocean itself just woke up a little.

But what he wasn’t seeing… was the boy.

Not yet.

Peter didn’t dare look away. Something was coming. He could feel it. The air was electric.

A shape swirled below the surface—then slowly rose.

Short brown hair clung to a golden-tanned face as the merboy surfaced, calm and unhurried. His arms folded atop the ship’s edge, just like before. Like he belonged there.

Peter’s whole body went still.

That tail—it shimmered like fire in the water. Reds and oranges, curling like live embers, licking at the ocean's surface without ever burning it. The gold glints looked like sparks trapped in motion. And his eyes… warm, amber, soft in the moonlight.

The boy smiled. Not a big grin, not dramatic. Just a small, familiar kind of smile. The kind that said I’ve missed you, and I’m glad you’re here.

Peter felt like he was intruding on something ancient and important.

“I was starting to think you weren’t coming,” the merboy said softly.

“I wasn’t sure I should,” Hunt replied, his voice low and quiet in the night.

The boy tilted his head. “But you did.”

“I always do.”

A silence passed between them—not awkward, not heavy. Just full.

“You still have it?” the merboy asked, a little lighter now.

Hunt reached into his coat and brought out the shell. That same brilliant orange-and-gold spiral, the one Peter had seen that first night. He didn’t offer it. Just held it up, let it glint in the moonlight.

The merboy’s face lit up.

“It’s still beautiful.”

“You said it hums,” Hunt murmured.

“It does,” the boy whispered. “When you’re close.”

Hunt looked at it, just for a second too long. “I keep it hidden. Feels like... if anyone else touches it, it’ll stop working.”

“It won’t,” the boy said gently. “But I like that you think it might.”

Peter’s pulse thudded in his ears. He couldn’t tell what he was witnessing. A friendship? A pact? Something deeper? All he knew was that Hunt didn’t look like the guarded, quiet crewmate he always seemed to be.

Here, now, in the moonlight, Hunt looked soft. Human. Real.

“You remember the first time we met?” the boy asked.

Hunt let out a breath, smile flickering. “One year ago. Right here.”

“I thought you were going to throw an oar at me.”

“I thought you were going to drag me under.”

“I considered it,” the merboy teased.

That got a short laugh from Hunt. A real one.

Peter stared, eyes wide. His brain couldn’t keep up. He’s had this whole second life? This connection? This secret?

“I didn’t know what you were,” Hunt admitted. “Didn’t understand any of it. Still don’t.”

“You didn’t run,” the boy said.

“No,” Hunt replied. “I didn’t.”

Another silence stretched—quiet, but full of weight.

Peter leaned in slightly. His heart felt like it was being reeled in by something invisible.

“I don’t get to know many people,” the merboy said softly. “Not for long. But you… you kept coming back. Even when I said not to.”

“You never really meant it,” Hunt said.

“No,” the boy smiled. “I didn’t.”

Hunt rubbed a hand over his face. “This whole year, I’ve been trying to figure out why.”

“Why you came back?”

“Why I still do.”

“And?”

“I don’t know,” Hunt murmured. “Maybe I just needed to know that something could exist out here that wasn’t cruel. Something real. Something good.”

The merboy’s voice was almost a whisper. “Do you think I’m good?”

“Yes,” Hunt said immediately. “Too good for the world I’m in.”

Peter felt something tighten in his chest.

There was nothing fake in this moment. No magic spell, no otherworldly enchantment—just something achingly real. A quiet bond built over time and kept alive through care and effort. Like the sea had chosen to keep this one fragile thread safe between them.

“I don’t get to stay long,” the boy said. “Not in one place. Not with one person.”

“I know,” Hunt replied.

“But every time I see you, I hope you’ll be here again.”

“I always will.”

The merboy reached up and lightly touched the edge of Hunt’s hand on the railing. Not quite a hold. Just contact. Just enough.

“I’ll wait again tomorrow,” he said.

“I’ll come,” Hunt promised.

Peter blinked fast. His chest was buzzing with things he didn’t have names for. Awe, maybe. Confusion. A weird, tight ache.

This wasn’t just about secrets anymore.

This was something precious.

Something Hunt had protected for a year. Something no one else on the ship even knew existed.

And Peter… was the only one who’d seen it.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know if he wanted to confront it—or just guard it the same way Hunt had.

The merboy gave a final smile, soft and glowing like the sea itself, before dipping back beneath the surface.

The fire-colored tail flicked once, then vanished.

The ocean went still.

Hunt stood there a moment longer, fingers brushing over the shell before slipping it back into his coat.

Then he turned and walked away.

Peter remained crouched in the shadows, heart pounding, thoughts crashing like waves.

He couldn’t unsee what he saw.

And he didn’t know what came next.

Peter didn’t move. Not even when the boy slipped back beneath the waves like he’d never been there at all. Not even when Hunt pocketed the shell and walked away, quiet as shadow.

He just… sat there. Frozen. Barely breathing.

The wood under him was damp and cold, but his palms were hot, sweaty. His heart? Full-on drum solo.

He hadn’t expected it to feel like that. Not just the proof—the realness of it—but the... tenderness.

That hadn’t been some dark sea ritual or curse or forbidden offering like he'd imagined in all his panic-fueled paranoia.

That was a moment.

Private. Quiet. Familiar.

Peter closed his eyes, replaying it. The soft way Hunt had looked at him—really looked at him. Not like a monster, but like someone who belonged. Who mattered.

The way the merboy smiled, not with fangs or trickery, but like someone happy to see their favorite person.

And the shell. Just a shell. No coin. No bargain. Just a small, beautiful thing, handed over like it meant the world.

Peter’s chest ached, and he hated it.

He was supposed to be cracking some mystery open, uncovering danger, maybe even saving the crew from a potential sea-creature situation. But now?

Now he felt like a kid who accidentally read a love letter that wasn’t his.

It wasn’t fear anymore.

It was something heavier. Guilt? Maybe.

Jealousy? He didn’t wanna think about that part.

So instead, Peter just sat there, curled against the crates, staring out at the rippling black of the ocean.

He didn’t move until the first gray light of dawn touched the edge of the water.

And by then, he’d already decided.

He wasn’t going to tell anyone.

Not Carter. Not Kevin. Not even Thomas.

Not because he trusted Hunt now.

But because... he understood.

Some things weren’t meant for the rest of the world.

Some things belonged only to the sea.

June 6th, 11:56 AM

The next morning, Peter rolled out of his hammock like he hadn’t just witnessed something out of a sailor’s fever dream hours earlier.

His eyes were puffy. His brain felt scrambled. But he slapped on a half-smile and wandered out onto the deck like a guy who definitely wasn’t secretly harboring major ocean-related emotional baggage.

Hunt was already up top, coiling ropes with his usual quiet intensity. Peter clocked him immediately—and then looked away like a guilty dog pretending it hadn’t eaten a whole loaf of bread.

Play it cool. Be chill. Just Peter. Definitely not someone who watched your secret merboy moment last night.

“Yo,” Peter said, voice cracking a little. “Morning.”

Hunt looked up, nodded. “Morning.”

That was it. Just one word. No side-eye. No suspicion. No sudden “hey-why-were-you-spying-on-my-secret-merfolk-affair” energy.

Peter nodded too. “Nice... sky. Very... blue today.”

Hunt squinted at him. “You good?”

“Me? Pfft. Yeah. Totally. Normal. Sky stuff.”

He immediately wanted to swan-dive into the ocean.

Kevin passed by holding two mugs of what could legally be called coffee and gave Peter a look like dude, what is happening to you. Peter ignored it.

Instead, he busied himself with helping Thomas check some of the rigging—not because it needed doing, but because it meant he could steal glances at Hunt from a distance like some kind of emotionally confused sea-stalker.

And every time Hunt moved—every time he adjusted a line or brushed hair from his face or hummed quietly under his breath—Peter’s brain screamed:

That’s the guy. That’s the guy with a secret shell and a flame-tailed ocean boy who smiles at him like he’s the sunrise.

Peter tugged the rope a little too hard.

Thomas shot him a look. “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m always weird,” Peter replied, trying to laugh. It came out strangled.

Thomas raised a brow, but said nothing.

The day dragged on, and Peter tried his best to focus. To be normal. But every interaction with Hunt had this weird pressure to it. Like he was waiting to be called out, exposed, interrogated.

But Hunt… didn’t act different at all. He wasn’t suspicious. He wasn’t cagey. He wasn’t even particularly distant.

If anything, he seemed lighter.

Like something good had happened.

And that only made Peter feel worse.

By the time dinner rolled around, Peter was full-on emotionally cooked. Still smiling. Still joking. Still stealing glances. Still spiraling.

He didn’t know what was worse:

Knowing the truth… or knowing how gentle it had been.

Chapter Text

Quick little update on somethings, I promise I am NOT discontinuing this fic nor have I forgotten about it. I had some ideas for other fics I wanted to write so I was super focused on those and my school just started so I am trying to get used to it. I can't say that this fic will be updated a lot because I know it won't, updates for it will usually be more spaced apart and will take a lot longer.

My other fic and my upcoming one will be updated frequently and as much as possible.

This fic will always take me longer to update since it follows more of a consistent story line than my others, some other reasons might just be lack of ideas or not knowing where to pick up from. Another thing that will play into this is that I recently dislocated my elbow and typing with one hand takes quite a bit of time.

That's mostly all for updates, I will delete this when chapter 10 comes out so I can replace it easier. Love you all and thank you for your support!