Ocean Kisses

Waves

Tango pov

I stood on the shoreline, my eyes fixed on the endless expanse of water, half-expecting—hoping—to see a glimmer of those brilliant purple eyes staring back at me. But the waves betrayed nothing, rolling onto the sand in their usual rhythm. No signs, no answers, no mysterious presence. Frustration bubbled up inside me, and without thinking, my tail flicked back and forth, an unconscious display of my agitation.

The quiet felt stifling, so I turned away, deciding to explore the debris scattered further down the beach. My bare feet crunched against the sand as I wandered, picking through the remnants of the crash, searching for anything useful—or at least distracting. But as I moved, a strange sensation crept over me. I wasn’t alone.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of movement. Someone—or something—was there, shadowing me through the wreckage. They were careful, staying just out of sight, their movements silent and deliberate. I smirked to myself, pretending not to notice as I continued to scan the debris. If they thought they could stay hidden, they were wrong.

As I meandered through the wreckage, my gaze landed on something unexpected—a guitar. It wasn’t in perfect condition, but it wasn’t completely destroyed either. The body was scuffed, and a few strings were missing, but it was still intact enough to play. I crouched down and picked it up, running my fingers over the worn wood. It was an acoustic, not my usual preference, but it was something.

The instrument felt strange and familiar all at once in my hands. A remnant of normalcy amidst the chaos. I slung it over my shoulder, turning back toward the water. My follower had gone still, their presence hovering just at the edge of my senses. I knew they were there, waiting, watching.

I smirked again, gripping the guitar tighter. If they wanted to follow me, fine. I’d let them make the first move. Until then, I had the ocean, a song buried somewhere deep in my memory, and a guitar to help me bring it to life.

I slung the guitar over my shoulder, grabbing its case as well, and made my way back to the small campsite I’d pieced together. The waves were calmer now, their earlier aggression faded into a gentle rhythm, but the feeling of being watched hadn’t gone away. I could still sense the figure lurking in the wreckage, their movements deliberate and slow, as if trying not to spook me—or perhaps not wanting to be caught.

When I reached my little shelter, I set the guitar down gently and opened the case. It creaked slightly, the hinges stiff with salt and sand, but inside, the interior was surprisingly well-kept. The guitar must have been stored carefully during the flight, untouched by the chaos that had claimed everything else. I inspected it closely, running my fingers along the strings and body. It wasn’t perfect—far from it—but it was in better shape than I expected.

I sat down and began to tune it, turning the pegs with practiced care. The soft twang of strings being adjusted filled the air, the sound carrying over the quiet beach. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement. The figure in the wreckage had stilled, their attention clearly fixed on me now. Whatever curiosity they had before seemed to grow as they watched, their silhouette shifting slightly as if leaning closer.

Satisfied with the tuning, I ran my fingers over the strings, strumming a tentative chord. The sound was rough, imperfect, but it still resonated. I played another chord, then another, each note filling the space around me. It was a small comfort, the familiar sensation of strings beneath my fingers grounding me in a way nothing else had since the crash.

The figure in the wreckage didn’t move closer, but I could feel their presence more acutely now, their intrigue almost palpable. I wasn’t sure what they wanted, but for the moment, I let the music flow, filling the silence between us. If they had saved me—and I was almost certain they had—maybe this was my way of thanking them. Or maybe it was just my way of finding a fragile sliver of peace in the chaos.

Time slipped away as I played the guitar, each chord blending into the next, a seamless flow of music that seemed to wrap around the beach like a protective cocoon. Hours must have passed, the sun climbing higher and then beginning its descent, painting the sky in soft hues of orange and pink. I was so lost in the rhythm that I almost didn’t notice the figure creeping closer.

When I finally caught sight of them again, they were inching toward me, cautious but undeniably curious. Their movements were slow, deliberate, as if testing how close they could get without me reacting. I smirked faintly but didn’t stop playing. Instead, I leaned into the melody, letting the sound fill the space between us.

Then it happened. A sudden flare of heat rushed through me, and my hair ignited, flickering with soft flames that cast dancing shadows on the sand. I barely batted an eye—this wasn’t unusual for me, after all—but the figure froze, their cautious approach turning to startled hesitation. For a moment, they looked torn between curiosity and fear, but I didn’t stop. The fire didn’t bother me, so why should it bother them?

Apparently, it did. With a panicked motion, the figure darted back toward the ocean, disappearing beneath the waves with an urgency that almost made me laugh. I kept playing, unconcerned, assuming they wouldn’t return. But before long, they emerged again, dragging something heavy in their arms.

Water dripped from their frame as they approached at a near-sprint. I raised an eyebrow but continued strumming, curious to see what they were planning. The answer came in the form of a large container—something they must have salvaged from the wreckage. Without hesitation, they hefted it over me, dumping its contents in a sudden, shocking rush of water.

The flames hissed and sputtered out instantly, leaving me soaked and blinking up at them in stunned silence. They stared back at me, their expression a mixture of triumph and nervousness, as if unsure whether I would be angry or grateful. For a long moment, neither of us moved, the sound of the guitar strings—now wet and muted—fading into the background.

Then, unable to help myself, I burst into laughter. The absurdity of the situation, the sheer determination they’d shown to “save” me from something that hadn’t even been a problem, was too much. They shifted awkwardly, their gaze flicking between me and the now-empty container, clearly unsure how to react.

“Well,” I finally said, my voice light with amusement, “thanks for the shower.”

I sucked in a sharp breath as soon as I met their gaze, the air catching in my throat. My laughter died instantly, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming sense of familiarity. Those eyes—rich, enchanting, and endlessly deep—pierced through me, freezing me in place. I’d seen them before, countless times in my dreams.

I almost choked on the water still clinging to my lips, coughing lightly as I tried to steady myself. But I couldn’t look away. The purple in their eyes seemed to swirl, shimmering like a galaxy, drawing me in just as it had in my dreams. It was impossible, surreal, yet undeniably real.

They tilted their head slightly, watching me with a mix of curiosity and something else I couldn’t place. Concern? Confusion? Recognition? The waves lapped softly at the shore behind them, their crimson, fin-like ears twitching as if attuned to every sound.

I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but no words came out. Instead, I just stared, lost in those haunting eyes, my chest tightening with emotions I couldn’t name. It wasn’t fear, nor was it entirely relief. It was… peace. The same inexplicable peace I felt every time I dreamed of them.

The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken questions, until they finally broke it with a small, hesitant smile. That simple gesture made my heart race, the surrealness of the moment crashing over me like a wave. I wasn’t sure if I was awake or dreaming anymore, but one thing was certain—those eyes had found me again.