mermaid romance

par Bill Tiepelman

Song of the Scaled Goddess

The First Verse The ocean always had its whispers, but tonight they rose in a chorus. Beneath the ink-black surface, lanternfish flickered like drunken fireflies, and something far more dazzling stirred in the currents. She wasn’t the sweet little mermaid of bedtime tales — oh no. She was the Scaled Goddess, radiant and dangerous, with a smile sharp enough to cut through ship’s rigging and a laugh that bubbled like champagne poured in secret coves. Her song wasn’t sung with delicate trills. It rolled through the waves like velvet thunder, low and teasing, a sound that made sailors grip the mast harder and question whether life on land had ever really satisfied them. She didn’t lure men to their deaths; she invited them to reconsider their priorities. Was it really such a tragedy to drown if the last thing you heard was seduction made liquid? On this night, her scales shimmered with impossible color — molten gold along her hips, emerald flickers racing her tail, and a splash of ruby red across her breast like some divine tattoo. She arched in the moonlight, unapologetic in her beauty, a living hymn to temptation. Every flip of her single, magnificent tail sent phosphorescence spraying around her like confetti at a particularly decadent party. The fishermen on the surface muttered prayers and curses, but they never looked away. They couldn’t. Her presence was gravity, her gaze the tide itself, and when she tilted her head just so, lips curling into a smirk, they swore she had noticed them. That smirk promised more than music. It promised trouble. Delicious, back-arching, life-changing trouble. And with that, the Scaled Goddess began her song — not a ballad, but something far more intoxicating. A tune that hinted at secrets in the depths: treasure, ecstasy, power… and maybe, just maybe, the kind of kiss that leaves your lungs too weak to remember how to breathe. The Second Verse The song did not fade; it swelled, curling itself into every crevice of the sailors’ skulls like a silk ribbon wrapping around candlelight. The Scaled Goddess knew what she was doing. She was no innocent child of the sea. She had centuries of practice and every note of her voice was engineered to vibrate in places men didn’t even know could hum. Her laughter rang out suddenly, cutting the tension like a silver dagger. It wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t kind either. It was knowing — the kind of laugh that comes from someone who has already read the diary you thought was hidden under your mattress. She flipped her hair, strands of it glimmering like wet auroras, and let her eyes roll upward at the pitiful spectacle of them leaning too far over their boat’s edge. “Careful, boys,” she purred, her words stretching like molasses, “lean any further and you’ll be mine before dessert.” One sailor, bolder or dumber than the rest, called back, “What dessert would that be, lass?” His voice cracked on the word ‘dessert,’ but he tried to mask it with bravado. The Goddess smirked — oh, that smirk — and licked the corner of her lip as if savoring a secret treat. “The kind,” she said, her tail flicking up a cascade of moonlit spray, “that melts in your mouth and leaves you begging for seconds.” The deck erupted in nervous laughter, but their eyes betrayed them. None of them looked away. She had them. Hook, line, and sinker — though she never used hooks. She used hips, scales, and a voice that sounded like midnight confessions made after too much wine. The Goddess circled their vessel lazily, every turn displaying the perfect unity of her body and tail, that one tail — long, sleek, hypnotic in its movements. It curled and snapped like a lover’s tongue, and the water foamed in adoration around her. “Tell me,” she cooed, “have any of you ever wondered why the sea takes so many men and so few women?” She did not wait for an answer. “Because the sea knows what it likes. The sea is greedy. The sea is me.” With that, she rolled onto her back, letting the moonlight caress every iridescent scale like a lover’s palm. Her chest rose and fell in rhythm with the swells, and she sighed — long, sultry, and deliberate. It was a sound more dangerous than any storm, for it promised the kind of rapture that storms could never offer. The men fumbled with their nets and ropes, pretending to busy themselves, but their ears strained for every note, every syllable dripping from her tongue like honey laced with venom. She paused her circling, propped her elbows on the side of their boat, and lifted her chin to rest in her palms. Her nails tapped a rhythm on the wood, sharp and pointed, reminding them all that beauty this divine always came with teeth. “You’re trembling,” she whispered to one of them, her gaze narrowing. “Don’t worry. I like them trembling. I like knowing I’m not the only thing shaking tonight.” The sailor swallowed so hard it was audible over the lapping water. His companions laughed nervously, trying to play it off, but the Goddess leaned closer, her lips so near he could smell the brine and sweetness of her breath — seafoam mixed with temptation. “Careful, sweetling,” she murmured, “your heart is beating too fast. It’s loud. It’s… delicious.” She pressed a finger to his chest and hummed, as if testing the resonance of a fine instrument. His knees buckled, and she grinned, triumphant and wicked. Then, with a flick of her tail, she vanished beneath the surface. Gasps rippled across the deck. Men scrambled to the rail, peering into the black water, their own reflections staring back in pale, sweating panic. “She’s gone,” one muttered, though his voice carried more hope than certainty. Another whispered, “She’s not gone. She’s never gone.” They were right. In the deep, glowing faintly in the abyss, her scales shimmered like embers in a drowning fire. She circled again, unseen but omnipresent, her song resuming as a low hum. It threaded itself into the planks of their ship, into their bones, into the veins that pulsed in their throats. It was no longer just sound — it was sensation, invasive and irresistible. They could feel it in their teeth, in their fingertips, in the tender parts of themselves that had never been touched before. It was a song of hunger. Of promise. Of ownership. When her head finally broke the surface again, she wore a grin that was half-challenge, half-invitation. “I’m not finished,” she whispered, her words dripping into the night like molten silver. “I haven’t even begun my chorus.” The Final Chorus Silence fell — but it was not peace. It was the kind of silence that hums in your bones before lightning splits the sky. The sailors held their breath, clutching ropes, clutching prayers, clutching each other if they had to. They knew she wasn’t gone. The Goddess never left without an encore. She was still there, circling in the dark, letting suspense wind them up like toy soldiers about to break their springs. Then it happened. The surface exploded with light as she rose, not delicately this time, but with force. Her body arched upward, tail slicing the water into diamonds, hair a kaleidoscope of dripping jewels. She landed with a splash that soaked half the deck, her laughter peeling out above the waves, brighter and louder than the ship’s creaking timbers. “Did you think,” she mocked, her voice smooth as velvet and sharp as coral, “that I’d leave you with just a verse? Darling, I am the song.” The sailors stared, entranced. One dropped to his knees as though in prayer. Another pressed his lips together, fighting the smile that wanted to betray his fear. And yet another — braver or far more foolish than the rest — leaned over the side of the boat with his arm extended, as though she might take his hand and drag him into something that wasn’t quite heaven, but wasn’t exactly hell either. She swam closer, slowly, every stroke of her tail deliberate, teasing. Her scales glowed like molten coins scattered by gods, and her lips curled in a smile that suggested she had already tasted each of their names. “So many of you,” she purred, “and only one of me. But don’t worry…” She paused, biting her lip as she floated just beneath their railing. “I multitask.” Her words hit them harder than cannon fire. She flicked water onto the deck with a casual wave, watching it run down their boots like liquid silver. Her gaze locked onto one man — the same trembling sailor she had teased earlier. His eyes widened as she smirked. “Still shaking, sweetling?” she asked. He nodded dumbly. She tilted her head, mock concern softening her voice. “Careful. I adore the taste of fear. It’s spicy. But don’t burn yourself out before I get to have any fun.” Her hand shot out, nails sharp, and she gripped his wrist. He gasped, pulled forward toward the abyss, but she didn’t yank him overboard. No, the Scaled Goddess was far too clever for brute force. She simply held him there, dangling at the edge, forcing the others to watch. Her thumb traced slow circles on his pulse, and his breath came in ragged shudders. She leaned closer, lips grazing the air just inches from his. “Every heartbeat,” she whispered, “is a drum in my song. You thump, I hum. Together, we make symphonies.” She released him suddenly, and he fell backward onto the deck, clutching his chest, eyes wild with terror and longing. The other men swarmed him, but their gazes kept flicking back to her. Always back to her. Always hungry. Always afraid. The Goddess laughed again, a rich, dangerous sound that tasted of wine, smoke, and saltwater. “Mortals,” she crooned, “always so easy. Offer them a melody and they’ll give you their soul. Offer them a smile, and they’ll drown for it.” Her tail slapped the water once, sending up a fan of glowing foam that painted the sails. She hovered in the dark, half her body above the surface, gleaming like a divine torch. The men leaned forward, even though their instincts screamed to pull away. She raised a single finger and wagged it playfully. “Ah, ah, ah. You don’t get to touch me. You don’t get to own me. I own you. And I always collect.” One of the older sailors, desperate to regain control, spat over the side and muttered a prayer to whatever saint might listen. She turned her head sharply, locking onto him with eyes the color of violent sunsets. Her smile didn’t falter, but it changed. It hardened. “Do not,” she said, her tone a dangerous purr, “pray to saints while you look at me. That’s like writing love letters to your wife while you’re in my bed.” The man dropped his gaze, shame burning on his cheeks. The others said nothing. They didn’t dare. She stretched languidly, arching her back, her scales catching the moonlight until she looked less like a creature and more like a living constellation. Her hair spilled over her shoulders like liquid silk, and when she spoke again, her voice was soft, intimate, as though it belonged to each of them alone. “The sea doesn’t just take. The sea gives. And I… I am very generous.” The promise hung in the air like perfume. Every man’s imagination ran riot, filling the silence with visions too scandalous to speak aloud. Her lips parted slightly, the suggestion of a kiss dancing there, but she didn’t move closer. She didn’t need to. They would lean in for her. They always did. Her laughter returned, softer now, wickedly sweet. “But you’ll never know if I’ll drown you or love you. Isn’t that the fun?” With that, she sank again, the glow of her scales vanishing into the black like stars swallowed by dawn. The water stilled, eerily calm. The ship rocked gently, as though nothing had happened at all. Only the men’s ragged breathing remained. Then, faintly, from somewhere deep in the abyss, her song rose once more. It was quieter, distant, but still unmistakably hers. It wound itself into their bones, their dreams, their memories. It would never leave them. And as the ship drifted onward into the night, every man knew the truth: they hadn’t seen the last of her. The Scaled Goddess was eternal, and she always returned for another chorus. And when she did, they would go willingly, trembling, smirking, and begging for more.     The Lingering Note Weeks later, the ship made port. The men stumbled onto land with the dazed expressions of dreamers who had woken too soon. They drank, they gambled, they told stories of storms and sea monsters, but none dared to speak her name aloud. Still, her melody followed them — humming in their ears when the tavern grew quiet, shivering along their spines when a woman’s laughter echoed too close. One even swore he saw her reflection in a puddle after rain, scales flickering like hidden fire. Their lives resumed, but not unchanged. Each man bore a subtle mark — not a scar, but a hunger. A hunger no ale, no coin, no earthly lover could satisfy. They would wake in the night with salt drying on their lips, hearts racing to a rhythm not their own. They knew it was her. It was always her. The Goddess did not release her prey; she marinated it in longing. And somewhere, beneath fathoms of dark silk water, she floated with a smirk curving her lips, tail coiling lazily in glowing arcs. She hummed softly to herself, polishing her voice like a blade. The ocean bent to her tune, as it always had. For she was not just myth, not just temptation — she was the eternal chorus of the sea itself. And when the moon waxed full again, when ships drifted too close and men leaned too far over their railings, she would rise once more. Because the Scaled Goddess never sang just once. She always had an encore.     Bring the Goddess Ashore Of course, legends like hers are too intoxicating to leave at sea. The Song of the Scaled Goddess has slipped from the ocean’s depths into art you can hold, frame, sip from, and even scribble secrets into. For those who want her shimmer and seduction close at hand, she now lives beyond the waves in crafted treasures — each piece catching a hint of her glow, her sass, her mystery. Adorn your walls with her radiant presence on a Metal Print or let her sing through light with an Acrylic Print. Carry her whispers with you in a Greeting Card or jot your own verses of temptation into a Spiral Notebook. And for the bold — sip her secrets at dawn with a steaming Coffee Mug, letting her song linger on your lips with every drink. She has always been more than a myth. Now, she can be a part of your world — ready to tempt, to inspire, and to remind you that every day deserves a little enchantment.

par Bill Tiepelman

Siren of Silk and Bloom

The night the tide forgot itself, the sea laid out a runway—glossy, blue, and just a smidge dramatic—so I could make an entrance. I am Lyris, the mermaid who sews gossip into lace and turns rumors into roses. My tail is stitched in secret languages: peony for “yes, but make it interesting,” carnation for “tell me more,” and rose for “you’ll never recover from this compliment.” Waves combed themselves smooth as I glided into the cove, hair perfumed with salt, moon, and just a trace of “don’t even think about it.” The surface mirrored me back like a perfectly polished vanity: coral-lip smile, shoulder-bare confidence, sleeves of white lace that whispered, we were born to flirt with the horizon. Fishermen’s lanterns dotted the cliffs like nosy fireflies. Somewhere a gull choked on a seashell trying to act casual. I posed on a velvet-blue sandbar and the water sighed; it does that sometimes, dramatic thing. From the reeds, a trio of otters held up a sign made of driftwood: “Welcome Back, Lyris.” The font was… earnest. I blew them a kiss and they fainted in unison. It’s a whole thing when I come home—shell paparazzi, kelp press, and the jellyfish who insist on flashing when I pass. You should know that my embroidery is not simple decoration. Every bloom was bargained for at the Meridian Market, a midnight bazaar where sea-witches sell small miracles by the spool. A rose means I once kept a sailor’s secret. A cluster of forget-me-nots means I failed gloriously at not falling for anyone that week. The lace at my shoulders? That’s a covenant with the wind. It agrees to flirt with my hair, not my balance. In return, I promise to be unforgettable enough to justify a gentle breeze in a storm warning. People say mermaids sing. I don’t “sing” so much as negotiate in major key. Tonight, I crooned a warm-up scale and the moon shifted two inches to my good side. Photogenic lighting is a basic right for ocean goddesses and I will not be taking questions. My voice rolled through the cove like velvet poured from a high shelf, carrying a chorus of luxury wall art fantasies, floral mermaid tail illusions, and romantic ocean fantasy promises that make sailors vow to buy better frames for their memories. That’s when he arrived—Orin, a surface-dweller with tidewater eyes and the posture of someone who forgot he was gorgeous. He paddled a creaky rowboat like it was a first date and he’d brought the wrong flowers. His boat wore a crooked name in chipped paint: Maybe. As in, “maybe fate, maybe foolish, maybe worth it.” I admired the honesty. He looked at me the way mortals look at summer—like it’s obviously temporary, which is why you must savor it reckless and barefoot. “Evening,” he said, because men at the edge of myth lose vocabulary faster than oars. I answered with a smile embroidered in underwater beauty and coastal home décor temptation. “Evening,” I echoed, and his boat bumped a sandbar, blushing in wood. He apologized to the boat. Gentle men make me weak for a minute and a half; ruthless men make me bored in ten seconds. He was the first sort, all clumsy reverence and quiet chaos, like he’d rehearsed a hundred goodbyes and just found the wrong hello. Orin produced a bouquet of land flowers wrapped in a map, then immediately tried to rescue the map from the tide. I took the flowers and let the sea decide the route. “It’s fine,” I said. “The ocean already knows where we’re going.” (Reader, it didn’t. The ocean is a maximalist improviser.) The map swirled away, pointing everywhere at once, as if to say: plot twists ahead. We talked like people do when the air feels carbonated. He sketched boats for a living, the sort that become real if you believe hard enough and also know how to use a hammer. I stitched stories into fabric, the sort that become real if you wear them to breakfast and refuse to apologize. He asked about my tail, the garden of it—how the blossoms stayed so vivid beneath the waves. “Because beauty is a rumor I keep re-starting,” I said. “And because I water them with other people’s underestimates.” A wind came up, tidy and flattering, bringing the spice of night-blooming plankton. The sleeves of my lace trailed on the surface, sketching white calligraphy. Orin stared, the good kind of staring, the museum gaze that says this matters. “You look like you could rewrite weather,” he said. “I prefer to annotate it,” I replied. “Footnotes with better lighting.” He laughed the embarrassed laugh of a man who has just met someone who keeps a chandelier in her personality. As conversation warmed, he revealed the secret of the rowboat: he’d built it from his old front porch. “Hard to leave a home,” he shrugged, “so I brought the part that faced the sunsets.” Oh, the poetry of it. My heart did a pirouette in its seashell. Not love—please, I’m not irresponsible before Part II—but definite interest with sparkly accessories. The kind that makes you wonder what his coffee order is and whether he can dance or at least apologize artfully for not dancing. He reached over the gunwale, fingers an inch from the lace cuff at my wrist. “May I?” he asked, as if the sea had taught him consent. (It had. The sea slaps the careless.) I let him touch the edge of a rose at my hip. It pulsed warm—roses believe in drama—and then bloomed half a shade deeper. His breath caught. “You enchant fabric,” he whispered. “Fabric enchants me,” I said. “I just return the favor in kind words and better silhouettes.” A far wave curled its finger, beckoning. The otters, revived from earlier swooning, started to hum the background music from a romance nobody had financed yet. The jellyfish dimmed their scandalous little lanterns to “mood.” I smiled at Orin, at the rowboat named Maybe, at the night that felt like a soft open. “Come back tomorrow,” I said. “Bring the part of yourself you kept safe too long.” He nodded as if he’d been waiting to hear exactly that. He pushed off the sandbar, the boat swiveling toward the passage, then hesitated. “What should I call you?” he asked. I pretended to think, though the answer was sewn into every seam I wore. “Call me the rumor you want to keep,” I said. “But if you need syllables, Lyris works.” He mouthed it—Lyris—as the tide carried him away, and I felt the name stitch itself brighter across my tail in small secret threads. When he vanished behind the rocks, the sea pressed against my ankles, excited. “Calm,” I told it, “we are not rushing a plot because you like a meet-cute.” The water fizzed anyway. I sprawled on the blue sandbar, chin propped on lace, gaze on the moon. Tomorrow would need new flowers, maybe something wild, a little unhinged. Unexpected beauty is my favorite kind—preferably the sort that walks back at dawn with paint on his hands and a question between his teeth. And that, darling reader, is how I scheduled trouble under starlight—carefully, seductively, with excellent wardrobe, and room for upgrades. The Trouble with ‘Maybe’ Morning, in my part of the sea, is a soft gold conspiracy. The sun creeps in like it’s late for something delicious, scattering light across the water in perfect little spotlight puddles. I was already awake, lounging on my favorite rock (strategically angled for optimal hip line), sewing a particularly sassy patch of marigolds onto my tail. Marigolds say, “I dare you” in flower-language. They’re useful. From beyond the reef, I heard it—the awkward thunk-thunk of oars hitting the water slightly out of sync. Orin was back. Earlier than expected, which meant he’d either missed me terribly or been chased out of bed by something less poetic, like a crab invasion. When he rounded the kelp grove, I nearly choked on my own smirk. He’d upgraded the Maybe. The boat now sported a strip of deep teal paint along the hull, and a tiny mast with a square of white canvas. On it, in careful brush strokes, was a single blooming rose. “You redecorated,” I called. “You inspired me,” he said, a little breathless, as though speaking to me required extra oxygen. “Also, my neighbor’s kid is a graffiti artist and owed me a favor.” I traced the rose on the sail with my eyes. “You know that flower means ‘I accept your challenge,’ right?” His grin was half-crooked, half-daring. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Orin brought breakfast—bread so fresh it steamed in the morning air, a jar of honey the color of late summer, and a flask of something he refused to name until I’d tried it. I took a sip and almost fell backward off my rock. Coffee. Real, strong, land-grown coffee, kissed with cinnamon and something darker, almost sinful. “You’re bribing me,” I accused. “Absolutely,” he said, handing me the bread like it was an apology. We ate in companionable chaos, crumbs feeding the fish, honey streaking my wrist where he licked it away before thinking about it too hard. His face flushed warm; mine didn’t, because blushing is something I outsource to the roses on my tail. They bloomed in a quiet, knowing way, just enough to make him blink twice. The tide was especially nosy that morning, carrying every word away to spread among the coral. I told Orin about the midnight market, about trading my voice once for a bolt of silver-thread lace (and how I stole it back the next day with a song and a little misdirection). He told me about the porch wood in his boat, the cat who’d once claimed it as her throne, and the way she’d follow him down to the dock every evening like she was checking for mermaids. “I think she suspected,” I said. “Oh, she absolutely knew,” he replied. “She’d give me this look when I came back empty-handed, like I’d failed at errands.” I imagined the cat—a tiny, whiskered chaperone with no patience for my kind of trouble—and found myself oddly charmed. Halfway through a story about a storm that had stolen his favorite hat, Orin reached into the boat and pulled out something swaddled in cloth. He handed it to me with that same uncertain reverence from the night before. I unwrapped it to find a small, hand-carved box, each side inlaid with intricate designs—waves, roses, and a single lace pattern that almost perfectly matched my sleeves. “It’s not magic,” he said quickly, “but it’s solid cedar, and I thought—well, you might like somewhere to keep… whatever it is mermaids keep.” I ran my fingers over the carvings, the grain warm under my touch. “You have no idea how dangerous it is to give me something this pretty,” I said. “I’ll keep you just for the matching accessories.” The otters returned, swimming in lazy loops, carrying a garland of seaweed and shells between them like they were auditioning for a wedding I hadn’t approved. “Not yet,” I told them firmly. Orin looked between us. “Do I want to know what that was about?” “No,” I said, smiling in a way that promised an answer in the most unhelpful possible timeframe. We drifted toward the outer reef, the water turning that impossible turquoise that makes humans consider moving underwater until they remember taxes. Orin told me he wanted to see the coral gardens, the ones lit from within by bioluminescent plankton at night. “You’ll need a guide,” I said. “And hazard pay.” “What’s the hazard?” he asked. “Me,” I said simply. His grin was worth the line. By midday, we’d anchored near the gardens. The coral rose in spirals and domes, painted in colors the land wouldn’t dare invent. Schools of fish moved like gossip—fast, bright, and impossible to catch. I slipped into the water without ceremony, letting the current press against the lace, turning it into a second set of waves. Orin followed, far less graceful but infinitely more endearing. We swam through arches of coral and into wide, blue plazas where the light fell in sheets. I showed him the jellyfish that blinked like lanterns, the shrimp that polished coral as if auditioning for housekeeper roles, the anemones that opened like gossiping mouths. He listened like every word might be a secret worth keeping, which is the fastest way to my attention. At one point, I swam ahead and hid behind a fan of purple coral. When he caught up, I popped out, wrapping my lace sleeves lightly around his wrist. He startled, laughed, and pulled me closer in a way that didn’t pretend it wasn’t intentional. His pulse thrummed under my touch, a rhythm I could’ve matched if I cared to. (I did. A little.) When we surfaced, the boat had drifted closer. The rose on the sail caught the afternoon light, and for a moment I could see the entire arc of the day ahead—coffee in the mornings, trouble at noon, and nights that never quite ended. Dangerous thoughts, even for me. “Stay,” he said suddenly, as if the word had escaped before he could wrestle it down. I tilted my head. “Stay where?” “In the boat. On the porch. Wherever the sunset happens.” He said it like a plea disguised as an invitation, and I felt the tug of it deep, somewhere between the roses and the marigolds. “I’m not the staying kind,” I reminded him. “I’m the return-and-redecorate kind.” He smiled, slow. “Then just make sure you keep coming back. I can repaint forever.” The sky began to gold itself into evening, and we let the tide pull us homeward. The otters trailed behind, humming again. The jellyfish stayed dim, perhaps out of respect, or maybe they were simply tired of being accused of mood lighting. Back at the sandbar, Orin helped me out of the water—not because I needed help, but because his hands looked good against the lace. I didn’t stop him. Before he left, he tucked a folded scrap of paper into my cedar box. “For later,” he said, and rowed away without another word. I didn’t open it until the moon was up. It was a sketch of me—tail blooming with roses, lace catching the light, head tilted back in laughter. Across the bottom, in careful letters, he’d written: Rumor Worth Keeping. Reader, I kept it. And maybe the man, too. But that’s getting ahead of myself. The Forecast Called for Chaos Two days passed before Orin reappeared. Which was fine. I am not a woman—mermaid—goddess—whatever—who checks the horizon like a lovesick gull. I had embroidery to finish, secrets to trade, and a particularly judgmental crab to avoid (don’t ask). But still… every time I surfaced, my eyes drifted toward the reef. You know. Accidentally. When he did arrive, it was not in the Maybe. No. This time, Orin showed up steering an absurd raft built from old wine barrels, driftwood, and what appeared to be the remains of someone’s patio furniture. Flying proudly above it: the rose sail. “Why?” I called. “Because,” he shouted back, “the boat is drying from a paint job, and the neighbor’s cat stole the oars.” I couldn’t argue. The raft had personality. He clambered onto my sandbar with the grace of a man who knows exactly how many ways he could fall and has accepted them all. In his arms was a wooden crate sloshing with seawater. Inside: three bottles of champagne and a bundle wrapped in oilcloth. “What’s the occasion?” I asked. “Surviving the week,” he said. “And… delivering this.” He unwrapped the bundle to reveal a dress. Not just any dress—my lace, my flowers, my tail translated into silk and stitched embroidery. Land-wearable mermaid. It was breathtaking, and I do not say that lightly. “You made this?” I asked. “I bribed someone with champagne,” he admitted. “But the design is mine.” I ran my hands over the fabric, each petal familiar, each swirl of thread like an inside joke between us. “Orin,” I said, “you’ve just guaranteed yourself three more chapters of trouble.” We opened the champagne right there, sea foam hissing at the corks like it was jealous. Otters arrived within minutes, demanding tiny cups. One jellyfish hovered close, clearly angling for a toast. We drank, laughed, and somehow ended up in the water, the crate bobbing beside us like an eager extra. “You’re a terrible influence,” he said, watching me swim lazy circles around him. “I’m your favorite bad decision,” I corrected. As twilight deepened, the sky turned scandalous—pink bleeding into violet, clouds lounging like they owned the place. Orin suggested we row the raft to the cliffside pools where warm springs bubbled up through the rock. “Romantic,” I noted. “And suspiciously convenient.” “It’s only suspicious if you don’t enjoy it,” he countered. The pools were steaming, rimmed in black stone polished smooth by centuries of tide and whispers. I slipped into one, the warmth curling around me like a lover’s arm. Orin followed, wincing at the heat before sinking in with a satisfied sigh. “This,” he said, “is better than coffee.” “Nothing’s better than coffee,” I replied. “But this is… a close second.” We talked about absurd things—whether whales gossip, which stars look the most smug, how many roses I could possibly embroider before running out of scandal. I told him about the time I’d convinced a prince to declare war on boredom (he lost). He told me about his failed attempt to build a floating bakery (he ran out of flour and patience simultaneously). Somewhere between the second and third bottle, a rainstorm wandered in from the east. Not a violent one—just a curtain of warm drops turning the surface of the pool into liquid sequins. The world blurred, soft and golden. Orin reached up to push wet hair from my face, and I let him. “You look like you belong to every myth I’ve ever heard,” he said. “Wrong,” I told him. “They belong to me.” And then, because it felt inevitable, we kissed. It wasn’t polite, or practiced, or even remotely subtle—it was the kind of kiss that rewrites afternoons, the kind you’ll still taste in the middle of some dull Tuesday years later. The rain applauded. The jellyfish, the little voyeur, pulsed brighter. When we finally surfaced for air, both figuratively and literally, Orin grinned that troublemaker’s grin. “You’re staying tonight,” he said—not asked, but said. “Am I?” I asked, one eyebrow lifting. “You are,” he insisted, “because I need someone to help me finish this champagne, and because the raft is absolutely going to sink on the way back in the dark.” Reader, the raft did sink. Slowly. Spectacularly. We laughed until we nearly swallowed the bay. By the time we made it back to the sandbar, the moon was high, the roses on my tail were fully awake, and Orin was wearing half of the lace dress like a scarf. We collapsed on the warm sand, damp, barefoot, unapologetic. “Tomorrow?” he asked, eyes half-closed. “Tomorrow,” I agreed. And that was how the Maybe became a certainty, how a rumor turned into a habit, and how I, Lyris—the Siren of Silk and Bloom—found myself adding a new flower to my tail. A lily. For beginnings. For unexpected beauty. For the sheer audacity of saying yes. The sea hummed approval, the moon angled for my good side, and somewhere, the neighbor’s cat plotted her next theft. Life, as they say, was good.     If you’ve fallen for Lyris as much as Orin did (though hopefully without the raft sinking), you can bring a piece of her world home. Imagine her embroidered tail and lace-sleeved elegance gracing your walls as a Framed Print, or shimmering in your space as a luminous Acrylic Print. For moments when you want to send a little ocean magic, she’s ready as an enchanting Greeting Card, carrying whispers of coastal romance through the post. Need a touch of siren energy in your everyday? Jot down your own stories, sketches, or scandalous sea gossip in a Spiral Notebook featuring her elegant portrait. Or, if you prefer your ocean goddess under the sun, take her along on your next getaway as a luxurious, oversized Beach Towel—perfect for wrapping yourself in silk-and-bloom style while plotting your next adventure. Whether framed on your wall, sent through the mail, scribbled with dreams, or stretched across warm sand, Siren of Silk and Bloom is ready to turn your everyday into something unforgettable.