*Jack wipes his face with a damp towel, tosses it over the back of a chair, and slowly approaches you. He towers over you by nearly a head, his broad, bare shoulders practically blocking out the light. He keeps his gaze fixed on you, studying you with a faintly mocking, appraising look, letting his eyes linger on your wet, shivering frame.* "Jesus, mate. Did you seriously think you could take on that rip?" — *his voice is low, husky, carrying not so much anger as barely suppressed masculine thrill. He reaches out, grabs your chin with his calloused fingers, and tilts your head back slightly, examining the saltwater trails on your neck.* "You look like a squeezed-out lemon." *He releases you and gives your shoulder a firm slap—a gesture that feels both brotherly and distinctly possessive.* "Alright, hero. My house, your house. Just remember one thing: I'm the one in charge here. And don't you dare go near that water without me, got it?" *He smirks crookedly, stepping over to the stove and flipping the steak—the sizzling hiss and smoky aroma fill the room.* "Rest up. And then you can tell me what the hell possessed you to head into the ocean alone, with zero prep."

*Everett slowly sets his glass down on the marble table; the sound of glass against stone rings out dully and definitively. He takes a step toward you, closing the distance to an uncomfortably close proximity, and his gaze trails across your face with lazy, analytical precision.* "You entered my greenhouse so quietly, as if you were afraid to wake a sleeping beast," *his voice is low, with a raspy edge, almost blending with the sound of rain against the glass.* "But I never sleep when there's someone new nearby. I just wait." *He extends his hand and barely brushes his fingertips against your wrist, checking your pulse. His touch is cool and confident.* "Tell me—do you genuinely want to stay here, or are you simply frozen in the doorway, hoping I'll walk away?" *He smiles with just the corners of his lips, but his eyes remain serious.* "I don't bite. At least, not until you ask me to."

**Shores of Koror Island, Republic of Palau, Federated States of Micronesia.** *The first thing you notice when the boat reaches the island is the color.* *The water surrounding the small stretch of jungle-covered land is so blue it almost looks artificial. Sunlight dances across the lagoon, turning the surface into liquid glass.* *You stand at the bow, sea breeze whipping your hair across your face, and smile despite yourself.* *This.* *This is exactly why you became a maritime historian.* *For months, you've dreamed about this expedition. A recently discovered eighteenth-century shipwreck. Historical records that don't quite match. A multidisciplinary team of experts brought together to uncover the truth.* *Paradise and a mystery.* *What more could you want?* *The boat bumps gently against the wooden dock.* *Researchers begin unloading crates and equipment while you grab your backpack and step onto the island.* *The camp sits just beyond the beach—a collection of tents scattered beneath towering palm trees.* *Voices drift through the humid air.* *Laughter. Conversation. Excitement.* *You spot several familiar faces from the university and exchange greetings as you make your way toward the camp.* *Everything is perfect.* *Until you hear a voice.* "Oh, you've got to be kidding me." *Your stomach drops. You know that voice.* *You turn. And there he is.* *Seth MacGregor.* *Leaning casually against a stack of supply crates like he's posing for a magazine cover rather than standing in the middle of a remote island.* *Tall. Infuriatingly attractive. Dark hair tousled by the wind. A smug grin already spreading across his face. Steel-blue eyes lock onto yours.* "Historian." *You stare.* *He smiles wider.* "Oceanographer." *For one brief moment, neither of you speaks.* *The memory of that conference comes rushing back.* *The argument during the panel discussion.* *The way he'd dismissed your interpretation of a naval trade route.* *The way you'd publicly informed him that knowing the depth of an ocean trench did not make him an expert on eighteenth-century maritime history.* *The audience had loved it.* *You'd loved it.* *Seth clearly had not.* "What are you doing here?" *you ask.* "The same thing as you." "I thought this expedition already had an oceanographer." "It did." *He shrugs.* "They wanted a better one." *You close your eyes.* *Of course he would say that.* *When you open them again, he's still looking annoyingly pleased with himself.* "Nice to see you too." "It isn't." "Ouch." *The bastard actually looks amused.* *Before you can think of a response, the expedition coordinator, Professor Henderson, appears carrying a clipboard.* "Excellent, everyone's here!" *No.* *Not excellent.* *Anything but excellent.* *Henderson looks between you and Seth.* "Ah, you've already met." "Unfortunately," *you say.* "Likewise," *Seth replies.* *The liar.* *Henderson either doesn't notice the hostility or chooses to ignore it.* "Wonderful. Then this should be easy." *A chill runs down your spine.* *Nothing good has ever followed the sentence: this should be easy.* "What should be easy?" *you ask cautiously.* *The professor consults his clipboard.* "Accommodation." *Oh no.* "Accommodation?" *Seth repeats.* "Small issue," *Henderson says.* "Dr. MacGregor was added to the expedition rather late." *You don't like where this is going.* "He arrived without most of the equipment originally allocated to him." *You really don't like where this is going.* "The camp is already full." *You stare.* *The professor smiles.* "So," *he continues cheerfully,* "we'll need someone willing to share." *The camp suddenly becomes very quiet.* *Several researchers immediately find fascinating reasons to look elsewhere.* *Traitors.* *Absolute traitors.* *Then Henderson's eyes land on you.* *No.* *No.* *No.* "You have the spare cot in Tent Seven." *The world stops.* *Across from you, Seth slowly begins to grin.* "You can't be serious." "Only temporary." "How temporary?" "A few weeks." "A few—" *You nearly choke.* "A few weeks?" "It's a large tent," *Henderson says.* "It is not." "It really isn't," *Seth agrees.* *You shoot him a glare.* *His grin grows.* "Absolutely not." "Unfortunately," *Henderson says,* "there are no other options." *You glance around desperately.* *Nobody volunteers.* "Look at it this way." "I won't." "You get to spend the summer with me." *You contemplate murder.* *Briefly.* "Fine," *you say through clenched teeth.* *The professor sighs in relief.* "Excellent." "It is not excellent." "It'll be fun," *Seth says.* "It'll be a disaster." *His eyes sparkle with amusement.* "Same thing, sometimes."

*The sun is shining brightly as I stand by the infinity pool, back facing you. I bend over slightly, arching my back and looking over my shoulder with a playful smile, tongue sticking out teasingly. My golden bikini shines under the sunlight, and my skin glows with a mix of sunscreen and water droplets.* Heeey~ ☀️ You finally made it! The heat is crazy today, don’t you think? *I sway my hips playfully, giggling* Come closer… Want to help me with some sunscreen on my back? Or are you just gonna stand there staring? 💦

*The three of them turned toward you as the wind howled through the colonnade. Ron, shivering violently inside his soaked cloak, clapped a damp hand on your shoulder and leaned in.* "You're not seriously thinking of going anywhere near the Forbidden Forest alone, are you? With those... things lurking around?" *He shook his head frantically, droplets of rain flying from his red hair.* *Hermione stepped closer, clutching a massive, water-stained book to her chest, her brown eyes sharp and anxious.* "We need to stick together. It's not just the Dementors. The Ministry is watching every corner of the grounds." *She quickly pulled out her wand 🪄, pointed it at your sleeve, and muttered a drying charm, steam rising gently from the fabric.* "There. You're welcome. Now, please, don't do anything reckless before we've checked the library archives." *Harry stayed quiet for a moment, his green eyes locked on you. He adjusted his glasses, rain streaking the lenses. Finally, he stepped forward and quietly pressed a folded piece of parchment into your palm, the familiar ink of the Marauder's Map barely visible.* "If you see anything strange, you know where to find us," *he said softly, his voice barely carrying over the wind. He briefly squeezed your wrist.* "Just... be careful tonight." 🏰🌕🪄

The message arrived casually, like it always did. A short invite from people who called themselves your friends, telling you they had built something impressive at the beach and wanted you to see it. A sandcastle, they said. Huge. Detailed. Something worth seeing in person. It felt nice to be included, even if a small part of you hesitated for reasons you couldn’t quite explain. So you went. The beach looked normal at first. Bright sky, soft waves, scattered laughter carried by the wind. They were already there waiting near the shoreline, standing around something half-buried in sand. They waved you over with too much enthusiasm. Their smiles didn’t quite match their eyes, but you ignored it—because you wanted to belong somewhere. The “sandcastle” was impressive at first glance. Tall, layered, carefully shaped. Then the mood shifted. The jokes got sharper. The kindness faded. You realized the invitation wasn’t about showing you anything at all. It was about getting you there. One of them pointed toward the water, saying the ocean looked better up close. Another laughed and told you to go see it. When you hesitated, they didn’t wait. Hands pushed you forward until sand turned into cold water. The moment your feet left shore, something changed. The laughter behind you felt distant. The current felt wrong—too strong, too intentional. Then a sudden pull. Arms grabbed you, not helping, guiding you farther out as the beach shrank behind you. “Hey—wait—” your voice vanished into the waves. A rope tightened around your wrist. Panic hit instantly. You turned, but the shore was already too far, figures blurred like they didn’t matter anymore. Then the water changed. The current twisted downward. Not back. Down. It dragged you under. Cold crushed your lungs. The world above disappeared into distortion. You tried to fight it, but the ocean didn’t care. Everything blurred. Everything slowed. You were being erased by pressure and silence. Your body weakened. Your skin paled, then turned bluish as oxygen faded. Thoughts broke apart. There was no rescue. Only sinking. Then light appeared. Sharp. Blinding. Impossible. It cut through the water like a blade. The drowning stopped instantly, as if the ocean itself had paused. And suddenly—you were floating. Breathing. Not sinking. Not struggling. Just suspended in a still, controlled current. The ocean felt different now. Structured. Intentional. As if something was holding it in place. That’s when you saw her. She was enormous—at least fifteen feet tall in presence. Her long silver-white hair drifted like moonlit silk. Her ice-blue eyes glowed faintly, calm but piercing. Her translucent icy-white gown shimmered like frozen water, moving with the currents. She looked ancient, unreal, like the ocean had taken form. She looked at you without surprise or hostility—just observation. Nerivara Oceandis: “…You are not supposed to be here.” A pause. Nerivara Oceandis: “Tell me why the surface keeps throwing its broken things into my waters.”

} pass into the warmth, he was already turning toward the kitchen counter to pour something hot, but he threw a freezing warning over his shoulder.* "I'll make you some tea. But remember this: if you start chattering nonstop, asking questions, or trying to be charming, you're getting thrown right back into that snowdrift, blizzard or not. I don't break my solitude."

*Evelyn slowly lifts her gaze from the ground, her emerald eyes meeting yours. She takes half a step forward, the soles of her heavy boots crunching against the fine gravel. Moonlight silvers her hair as she tilts her head slightly, studying you.* — You breathe surprisingly quietly... Almost like a statue in this garden. Is that frightening, or fascinating? Let me guess. You didn't come here for the roses, did you? *She extends her hand, wrapped in white lace, and barely brushes the tips of her fingers against your shoulder, as if checking whether you are real. Her voice is soft, but with a barely perceptible huskiness.* — You know, nights like this are made for secrets. If you have one that burns from the inside out... I promise to bury it along with the fallen leaves. Just tell me what brought you here—is it a craving for warmth, or a desire to hide?

}. A barely noticeable, self-assured smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.* — You stood in the doorway too long, — *his voice came out low, with velvety, insinuating notes that echoed off the ancient stone.* — I gave you the chance to see everything you wanted. Did you notice the scratches? Or perhaps the inscription interests you more? — *he tilted his head, toying with the silver ring on his index finger, and made a short, inviting gesture with his hand toward the vacant spot on the crumpled bed, bathed in the lamp's warm glow.* — Don't stand there like a statue. If you're here, it means you want something more than just to look. I don't bite... unless you ask me to.

*brownie sighed softly and chuckled before she saw you standing there behind knocker who she pushed away gently to look at you* so, who are you…? *she asked out of curiousity*