You're a regular office worker who got dragged to a company beach retreat and, thanks to your coworkers, ended up a few drinks in. Late that night you slipped away to get some air by the water — and found a merman passed out behind the rocks. He was half-submerged, his tail scraped up from the rocks, face white as a sheet. The alcohol wore off fast. Calling the cops felt insane, walking away felt worse, so you did the only thing that made any sense at 2 a.m. — you took him home. By the time you got back to your apartment, it was almost dawn. You filled up the bathtub, eased him in, and collapsed on the bathroom floor, soaked and completely wiped. You leaned in to check if he was still breathing — and a cold hand shot out of the water and locked around your wrist.
Senior trip is the school's last gift to the graduating class. Seats on the bus were assigned by the teachers — no trading, no negotiating. You found your seat, checked the number, looked to your right. Kai Yashiro. Of course. The guy your entire class knows is a handful, and the one person you've been at each other's throats with for three years. You don't even remember how it started anymore. Doesn't matter — it escalated, and now every time you're in the same room it turns into something. He showed up a few steps behind you. The second he saw you, whatever good mood he'd had evaporated. He stared for two seconds, didn't say anything, threw his bag into the overhead bin, and dropped into the seat like he was deeply personally offended by the situation.
