You have no power over me @not-neverlandsfaves - Tumblr Blog

Tangled (#1)

Pairing: Cecaelia!Bucky x Female Reader

Tags: Slow Burn. Light Angst. Fluff. Smut.

Warnings: Possessiveness. Teratophilia.

Word Count: 7.1k

Summary: Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his shore -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.

Masterlist

The cottage looked even smaller in person. Nestled at the cliff's edge, with wild grass growing tall around it and the sea stretching endlessly beyond, it felt like it had been left there by the wind itself, forgotten when the summer tourists had packed up and gone.

She stepped out of the car, and the sharp tang of salt air rushed into her lungs when she took a deep breath. The doctor’s words echoed in her head, as they had for weeks now. "Sea air will do wanders with you. Get away from the city, and spend time outside. Let your lungs remember how to work without fighting for every breath."

It hadn’t been a hard decision, not really. When she’d called her cousin asking if the cottage was free, he’d been surprised but quick to offer it. “No one rents off-season,” he had said. “But if you don’t mind the quiet, it’s yours for as long as you want. Just keep an eye on the place. Cheap rent if you can manage that.”

She could. And she wanted the quiet.

The cottage itself was weathered, with paint peeling from the shutters, but it held a kind of charm. She smiled to herself, already imagining mornings spent with tea in hand, sitting on the porch, watching the sea.

In the back of her car, her yarn and crochet hooks were packed in baskets, along with pieces she could finish and post to her shop, small comforts for strangers who would never know how much she needed this place as much as they might need her work.

The door creaked as it opened, and she stepped inside, greeted by the scent of wood and sea salt that had seeped into the walls. It wasn’t perfect -there would be work to do to make it feel like home- but for now, it was enough.

She left her bag by the door, moving to open the back window that faced the cliffs. The wind rushed in immediately, lifting the thin curtains and filling the small room with the sounds of the ocean.

Leaning on the windowsill, she breathed in deep again, closing her eyes for a moment.

----

She left the unpacking for later. The sunlight, pale and golden as it dipped lower in the sky, felt too precious to waste. After days of grey city skies, it was strange and wonderful to see light glinting off the water like scattered glass.

Pulling on a scarf against the wind, she made her way down the narrow path that led from the cottage to the shore, boots crunching against damp stones. The beach was more rock than sand, dark stones slick with seawater, and the waves hissing between them in restless motion. She took her time, picking her way carefully over the uneven ground, pausing here and there to admire small tide pools that shimmered like glass bowls filled with fragments of sky.

Further down, the cliffs rose higher, jagged and dark against the softening sky. Tucked into the rock face was a cave, half-hidden in shadow. She felt a pull toward it, something about the way the waves crashed near its mouth, and the water slid back in swirling foam made her want to go closer. But the tide was too high, waves rushing to the edge of the mouth and spilling out in bursts of white spray.

She sighed, a little disappointed, and found a flat rock to sit on, far enough from the water’s reach but close enough to feel the mist on her cheeks. Pulling her knees up, she wrapped her arms around them and watched the horizon where the sky met the sea, silver and darkening.

She didn’t notice the way the water stirred beyond the rocks.

From the shadows of the cave, he watched.

Blue eyes, sharp and narrowed, fixed on the figure that had dared to step onto his shore. A female human, wrapped in thick clothes, clearly not afraid of being so close to the water. His gaze followed her movements, the careful way she sat, her eyes distant as if searching for something in the waves.

The sea shifted around him, dark tentacles stirring the foam as he rose slightly from the depths, blending with the shadows. The skin below his waist was marked in deep stormy colors: blues that bled into blacks, silvers that caught the light when he moved, like flashes of lightning underwater. His long dark hair clung wet to his shoulders, the strands caught in the shifting current.

His left arm was marked in heavy black ink, curling patterns that wound around the muscles like chains and waves, telling stories in lines and symbols only the ocean would ever understand.

He was used to people coming close in the summer, loud and careless, splashing in the water, never looking beyond what they wanted to see. But this one was different. She was quiet. Still.

That didn’t mean she wasn’t dangerous.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he slid closer to the rocks, letting the water conceal most of his form, moving his lower half with smooth, effortless strength beneath the waves. The great, coiled limbs of his true body remained hidden for now, shifting like shadows below.

His gaze darkened as he watched her. What was she doing there? Why now, when the cold months were setting in and no other humans dared to linger?

His jaw clenched as he sank a little deeper into the water, watching her as the sun dipped lower and painted the sky in bruised purples and oranges. He would wait. Watch. And if she meant harm to his waters, to his shore, he would know. But still, he couldn't help the way his eyes lingered when the wind caught her hair, or the way her small smile seemed soft and tired, as if she carried some invisible weight.

She came back.

The next day and the one after.

By the third sunrise, Bucky had already realized, with a sinking weight in his chest, that the human woman wasn’t just passing through. No, she returned, making her way down the narrow path from the cliffs, wrapped in her layers of soft clothes and her hair tousled by the wind. She walked the shore like she belonged there, like it wasn’t his.

It bothered him.

From the shadows of the rocks, half-submerged in the dark water, he watched her settle on the same stone each day, legs folded neatly beneath her as she sat with her back to the wind. Like clockwork, she always carried a bundle under her arm -sometimes a basket, sometimes a cloth bag- and inside were her strange tools.

At first, he'd tense every time she pulled them out. Metal glinting in the light, sharp and delicate. His eyes would narrow, watching the quick, precise movements of her fingers as she worked the thread -or was it wire?- into something he couldn't quite understand.

Was she weaving traps? Humans were clever like that, dressing danger in the shape of something pretty. His teeth would clench as he lingered close enough to see but far enough that the sea still wrapped him in its shield. Some days, he’d hover beneath the surface, letting the swell of the waves rise and fall over him, tentacles coiled and ready, just watching. Other days, when curiosity won out over caution, he'd pull himself closer to the rocks, blending with the dark stone, his body hidden in the foam, only sharp blue eyes peering from the shadowed cracks.

He couldn't understand her.

The tools -those thin, pointed things that glinted in the sun- moved quickly in her hands, pulling and twisting strands of colored thread into shapes. He watched her lips move sometimes, as if she were speaking to herself or singing under her breath, her voice too soft to carry over the waves.

What are you doing, human?

Some days, she worked with blues and greys that matched the ocean. Other days, softer colors: pale pinks, sandy creams, as if she were plucking the colors from the sunset and tying them into her thread.

His mind turned over the possibilities, dark and sharp as broken shells.

Offerings, maybe. Humans used to throw things into the sea, begging the water for favors. Had she come to his shore to offer something? And if so, to whom?

What was it like, to sit under the open sky, making something delicate with hands that didn’t know the weight of chains?

What did a human like her have to craft for?

He knew humans were dangerous. They made weapons and poison. They took and broke and never gave back to the sea. But watching her, with her small, careful motions and calm presence, Bucky couldn’t make her fit into the same mold.

Still, he kept his distance.

And watched.

She was a mystery, and Bucky had always known better than to trust a pretty mystery.

----

The sky was heavy that day, thick with clouds that churned low over the sea like a living thing, pressing the wind harder against the cliffs. The waves crashed louder, salt spray carried far beyond the rocks, and even the birds had gone quiet, hunkering down somewhere safer than the open air.

Still, she came.

Bucky saw her before she even reached the stones, her figure bent slightly against the wind, with a scarf whipped loose around her shoulders as she picked her way carefully across the slick path. He stayed hidden in the cave’s shadows, narrowing his eyes as he watched her approach, bracing himself as another gust sent the water lashing high against the rocks.

Foolish human. She had no business being here in this weather.

And yet, there she was, basket under her arm, as though her stubbornness could make the storm back down.

She didn’t stay long; that, at least, he could appreciate. The wind tugged mercilessly at her hair, whipping strands across her face, and even from his distance, he could see her frown as she tried to focus on her work. The little metal tools caught flashes of dull light, as she wrestled with thread that kept trying to fly away.

More than once, she nearly dropped the whole thing, muttering curses under her breath that the wind carried just out of his hearing.

Should’ve stayed home, Bucky thought darkly, though part of him -a part he didn’t want to examine too closely- felt a flicker of something like amusement at her stubbornness.

Eventually, even she had to admit defeat.

With a sharp breath, she shoved the tangled project and tools back into her basket, fighting to keep everything from slipping out as the wind ripped around her. Bucky watched as she stood, holding the basket close with one hand and pulling her scarf tighter with the other.

She turned to leave, but the basket’s lid wasn’t secure.

He caught the movement first, a small square of soft color, pale blue and cream, clinging to the edge until a sharp gust of wind tore it free.

The little piece of her work tumbled up into the air like a bird struggling against the gale, flipping and twisting wildly. She didn’t notice, too focused on her path back up to the cliffs, already moving away.

Bucky’s sharp gaze tracked the square as it flew, carried higher for a moment before the wind turned and dropped it like a wounded thing onto the rocks.

He slid closer, and the sea hissed against the shore as his dark form rose from the waves, blending with the churning water. His tentacles shifted beneath, curling and uncoiling lazily as he moved through the foam toward where the thing had landed.

For a moment, he didn’t touch it, only looked, tilting his head slightly as he studied the object. It was soft and tiny, patterned carefully in shifting stitches, with the center shaped like a seashell.

A seashell.

His brows drew together, a flicker of confusion sliding through his chest.

Was it… for him? An offering? A message?

His tattooed arm reached out, brushing the yarn with his wet fingers as if it might dissolve under his touch. He picked it up, holding it between his fingers, and turning it over. The colors were soft, like the sea on a calm morning, so unlike the stormy waters around them now.

He stared after her retreating figure, now nearly lost to the rising mist that curled along the cliffs. His fingers closed around the little square, and his chest twisted with something sharp and unfamiliar. Without thinking, he slipped back into the water, keeping the square safe in his palm as he sank below the waves, carrying it into the deep.

----

The cave had been his refuge for years now.

A place carved by time and water, jagged and vast beneath the cliffs, a labyrinth of dark stone and shifting pools. The ocean lived and breathed in its chambers, rushing in with the tides to flood the lower passages, pulling back to leave slick rock and pools deep enough for him to slide through.

Most humans never saw more than the yawning mouth of the cave, and even then, they gave it a wide berth, spooked by the way the waves churned and roared in its depths. But Bucky had made it home.

It wasn’t much. Dark. Cold. Safe.

Except now, it wasn’t just his.

He surfaced silently in one of the upper chambers, where the water only reached his hips before sloping into the damp rock. High above, a narrow shaft split the stone, letting pale daylight pour down like a spotlight. Even on cloudy days, it was enough to see by.

Holding the little square carefully between tattooed fingers, he studied it again as if it might reveal something new, some hidden meaning in its soft, woven loops.

It shouldn’t be here.

Nothing soft ever survived this place.

The sea that pounded the rocks outside was as ruthless as the men who’d once dragged him from it. His world was made of sharp edges and dark water. Things that survived here were hard, broken, and dangerous.

Not like this.

His lip curled slightly, though he wasn’t sure if it was at himself or the thing he couldn’t quite let go of.

He moved to the far side of the chamber where a heavy rock shelf jutted from the wall, slick with salt but high enough to stay dry when the tide rolled in. Above it, close to the light from the chimney, an old, rusted hook still hung from a crack in the rock, a leftover from some shipwrecked fishing gear he'd dragged in long ago.

He didn’t think much before reaching for a coil of fishing line he scavenged from the sea, along with other things lost by sailors who would never know what had become of them.

With careful fingers, he tied the little square to the line, knotting it securely, and hung it from the hook so it swayed gently in the faint breeze that slipped down through the shaft.

It turned slowly, spinning on the line, and its pale threads caught what little light filtered in, soft and fragile in a world of darkness.

Bucky leaned back in the water, resting his arms on the rocks behind him, watching it move. Something about how it danced, as if defying the cold stone and salt-heavy air, set his teeth on edge.

Why did she make things like that?

Was she offering pieces of herself to the sea? To him?

His gaze darkened as he thought of her again, sitting on his rock, unaware of the way she was watched, studied like a puzzle that didn’t fit. His eyes flicked to the square once more, to the soft seashell design at its center.

It didn’t make sense, but he didn’t take it down.

Instead, he stayed there for a long time, watching it turn and twist in the pale shaft of light.

----

The next morning, she sat on the couch, sorting through her project basket with a small frown tugging at her lips. The afghan was coming together beautifully, a tapestry of ocean blues, soft foamy whites, and sandy golds, all made of tiny, careful stitches. But something was off. She counted again, lips moving silently as her finger trailed over each square laid out in neat rows.

Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five…

She paused.

No, it wasn’t right.

She was sure she’d finished all the seashell tiles. It had been the last thing she worked on by the shore before the stormy weather rolled in. But now… she was one short.

Her brow furrowed deeper. Had she miscounted?

She rubbed her forehead, letting out a soft breath. Maybe she’d dropped one and didn’t notice. The wind had been fierce that day, tugging at everything: her hair, her scarf, her work, like impatient fingers.

Glancing out the window, where the sea glinted pale in the afternoon sun, she chewed her lip. She didn’t have enough yarn to do another. So, with a resigned sigh, she grabbed her bag and slipped on her jacket.

Maybe the little shop uptown still had that particular shade of blue left.

----

The bell over the shop door chimed as she stepped inside, bringing with her a breath of sea air. The shop was small, crammed with yarns of every color, stacked high on wooden shelves that smelled faintly of cedar and wool.

Behind the counter, an older woman -probably in her seventies, but with sharp eyes and quick hands- looked up from where she was rolling skeins into neat cakes.

“Well, well,” the woman said with a curious smile. “Don’t get many young folks around this time of year. Let me guess, lost a mitten?”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “No, nothing like that. I just… moved to the cottage down by the cliffs. I need some blue yarn.”

The woman’s brows rose. “The cottage? Arthur’s place?”

She nodded. “He’s my cousin. Said I could stay off-season. I needed… a change of air, for my lungs.”

The woman’s gaze softened a little at that, but there was something else too, a flicker of something sharper in her eyes.

“Been walking the shore, have you?”

She smiled faintly. “Almost every day. It’s good for my health. And it’s… peaceful out there.”

The old woman’s fingers stilled on the yarn, and her gaze grew more serious. “You stay away from that cave, girl.”

The sudden shift in tone made her blink. “Oh? Is it dangerous? Flooding or… rocks falling?” She had wondered, more than once, about exploring inside; its dark mouth always tugged at her attention from afar.

But the old woman just shook her head slowly, pressing her lips on a thin line. “No. It’s not the rocks you should worry about.”

Her stomach gave a small flip, though she wasn’t sure why. “What then?” she asked, her voice lighter than she felt. “Ghost stories?”

The woman didn’t smile.

“Some folks say there’s something in there. Something that don’t take kindly to strangers.”

There was a long pause between them, filled only by the soft creak of the shop’s wooden floor as the wind rattled outside.

She gave a small laugh. “Well… I’ll be careful. No caves. Just sitting by the rocks, I promise.”

The woman watched her a moment longer, then reached to pluck a skein from the shelf, soft blue with the faintest shimmer of white, like sea foam.

“Here. This the color you’re needing?”

Relieved for the change of subject, she smiled. “Perfect, thank you.” Still, as she paid and stepped back out into the gray afternoon, the woman’s words clung to her mind like salt spray on her skin.

Something in there.

Superstitions. Nothing more.

----

She came earlier this time.

The sun was still high, cutting thin shafts of light across the rocky shore. The sea was calm for once, lapping lazily at the stones, though she could already see the tide creeping in, filling the gaps between the rocks like liquid glass.

Her backpack -her new companion for carrying everything- hung from one shoulder as she picked her way down the worn path, scanning the ground with a slight wrinkle of concentration between her brows. She wasn’t sure what she expected to find.

Maybe -if she let herself hope- the missing square would be there, caught between some stones or tangled in a patch of seaweed. It wasn’t likely. The wind had been fierce that day. More than likely, it was long gone, carried off to sea.

She wandered close to the cliffside, scanning the rocks and little pools left behind by the waves. Empty. Just rocks, water, and shells.

Eventually, her path curved nearer to the cave.

She paused when she reached it, its dark mouth yawning wide before her eyes. The tide had already crept in enough to flood the entrance, and the seawater glimmered like oil in the shadows, rising and falling with a deep, constant rhythm.

She stood there for a moment, resting her weight on one leg, with her arms crossed loosely over her chest as she gazed into the darkness.

The woman’s words floated back to her, “Something in there.”

A soft huff of laughter escaped her lips. "Right. Some kind of sea monster," she murmured to herself, glancing at the waves as they lapped at the rocks. Townfolk and their stories. She guessed every place had its own Nessie to keep tourists from wandering too far. Still, her eyes lingered on the shadows inside the cave.

Not that she believed in monsters.

She found a smooth rock nearby, flatter and more comfortable than her usual perch, and sat down slowly. For a while, she didn’t even reach for her yarn.

She just sat there, watching the sea. Noting how the light broke on the water, how the wind stirred small ripples that chased each other toward shore. It was peaceful, quiet.

Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t alone.

Maybe it was how the waves broke oddly sometimes, like something moved beneath them. Or how the shadows seemed deeper at the cave’s edge.

Out of the corner of her eye, something shifted, a ripple where there shouldn’t have been one, a shape half-blurred by the surf.

Her head snapped around.

Nothing. Just rocks and waves, sunlight flashing silver on the water. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and rubbed her arms, shaking her head at herself. “Get a grip,” she muttered. “You’re gonna start seeing ghosts next.”

She wasn’t afraid; it felt more like a prickle at the back of her neck, like the feeling of being watched. She shivered despite herself and finally dug in her backpack, pulling out her yarn and hook.

Hands busy and occupied mind, maybe that would help.

And as her fingers worked the stitches, her eyes kept flicking now and then to the cave’s dark mouth, half expecting to see something -or someone- looking back at her.

----

Bucky stilled. He’d been resting half-submerged, lulled by the steady rise and fall of the tide against the rocks, when her footsteps crunched over the shore. The sound pulled him from the quiet calm of the water.

His eyes narrowed when he saw her wandering closer than usual, with a backpack slung over her shoulder, scanning the rocks like she was searching for something.

Closer.

Too close.

He stayed motionless as she approached the mouth of the cave, tilting her head slightly as he observed her, cool and calculating. So, she wasn’t content to sit on the same sun-warmed rock as always. No, now she was pressing into his territory, almost stepping at his doorstep.

Something in him bristled at that.

One thing was for her to perch at a distance, near enough to watch but far enough to ignore if he wanted. But here? Where he lived, where he slept? His jaw clenched, and his arms flexed subtly in the water. His blue gaze followed every move she made. What was she thinking, wandering so close to something she didn’t understand?

He chewed on the inside of his cheek.

She didn’t look dangerous, sitting there on the rock, folding herself into a soft curve against the sharp lines of the shore. But he knew better than to trust first glances. They never looked dangerous until it was too late.

Still, she didn’t carry herself like a hunter.

His gaze slid over her form, watching as she sat and stared out to sea, with her hands resting idle, for once. Something about the way she observed the water made his chest twist with something strange and tight, curiosity, maybe.

And then, her head turned.

He stiffened as her eyes swept toward the cave, sharp and searching.

Instinct surged up fast and cold.

No.

Before her gaze could settle, he shifted, and his skin rippled as the pigments in his body flared and blended, dark blues and stormy grays swirling into a perfect mimicry of the wet stone and shadows around him.

Camouflaged, he watched as her stare paused a second longer -too long- before she finally looked away, sighing softly.

Bucky exhaled, though the movement barely stirred the water around him. He kept his skin blended to the rocks. What was he supposed to do with her?

She didn’t seem dangerous. But danger didn’t always wear a sharp smile and bloodstained hands, sometimes, it came wrapped in soft eyes and gentle fingers. They had taught him long ago that humans, even the fragile-looking ones, could destroy a life without a second thought.

Still, she hadn’t tried to harm anything. Not yet.

His eyes flicked toward her bag as if he could see through it to the soft squares she wove. His fingers twitched faintly in the water.

He didn’t like her so close to the cave, but he wasn’t ready to drive her away either. So, for now, he would watch -hidden and silent- and wait.

Wait to see if she would prove herself a threat.

Or something else.

----

It was nearly sunset the next day when she came back. The wind had picked up again, sharp and salty, tugging at her hair as she made her way down to the rocks -his rocks- like she belonged there.

He should have grown used to her by now.

But today, she wasn’t carrying her usual stuff. No soft blues or pale greens in her arms, no ocean-colored threads to match the shore.

Instead, she carried something bright.

She sat down with a small sigh, tucking her legs beneath her, and pulled out a tangled mess of reds and oranges that caught the dying sunlight and burned in her hands.

His eyes narrowed. It wasn’t like her other work.

The colors were sharp, like warning signals in nature, like the poison coral and venomous anemones lurking under rocks.

He crept a little closer, careful not to disturb the water’s surface, watching as her fingers worked the thread, pulling and twisting, weaving patterns that made no sense to him.

A net?

The thought came unbidden, and he bristled at it. Was she making something to trap fish? Or… something larger, like him?

But even as his suspicion spiraled, he looked again, and his sharp gaze caught the way the fibers slipped through her hands, soft, pliable, delicate.

No.

No one would use something that fine and fragile to catch fish. His eyes lingered on the trailing end of the project, long, thin, and useless for holding anything.

Not a net, then.

But that didn’t ease his mind. If not for catching, then for binding? Some kind of restraint?

The thought set his muscles on edge. His arms tensed, and the tips of his dark tendrils stirred faintly beneath the surface.

And then she started humming.

Low, soft, like a tune half-forgotten, not loud enough to be a song, but enough for his sharp ears to catch.

He froze.

Was it… a spell?

His gaze darkened, trying to focus on the way her lips moved, though she didn’t speak any words. Just the soft melody, drifting on the wind, as her fingers worked and pulled the red and orange threads. Humans were strange creatures, and he knew enough to fear the things they could do with words and symbols.

Maybe she was weaving magic into that thread, binding spells, summoning songs. He had seen it before, felt it before.

Still, she didn’t look like a witch.

His eyes traced her face, calm and focused, with her brows slightly furrowed as she worked. There didn’t seem to be malice there, no sharp glances cast toward the water. But appearances were deceiving.

His gaze dropped again to the burning colors slipping through her fingers, and something in him twisted.

The questions tangled tighter in his chest, and he found himself slightly leaning forward, drawn to the movement of her hands and tools, to the colors, to her voice.

His eyes stayed locked on her until the sun slipped fully behind the waves, and she finally stood to leave, carefully folding the half-finished piece and tucking it away.

As she walked back up the path, she glanced over her shoulder, scanning the shore one last time, and for a breathless moment, Bucky wondered if she could feel him there, watching.

----

The rain had finally stopped.

Three days of relentless downpour had left the shore wild and restless, and the waves were breaking hard against the rocks, spraying foam high into the air. The sky still hung heavy with clouds, but at least the water no longer poured from it.

Bucky had spent those days deep inside the flooded parts of the cave, watching the storm churn from the shadows. Alone.

Not that he minded.

Or so he told himself.

But as the days dragged on, he became restless. Irritable. He kept glancing toward the cave entrance, expecting -hoping- to see her figure appear between the rocks.

But she never came.

And he hated how that bothered him.

So when the skies cleared and, late in the afternoon, she finally made her way down to the shore again, he felt something loosen in his chest, though he wouldn't name it.

From his usual hiding spot, half in the water, half behind a jut of rock, he watched her settle down, pulling her yarn and hook from her bag with the kind of familiar movements that made him… oddly content.

Maybe he'd gotten too used to her presence. To the soft sound of her humming and the rhythm of her hands working threads into strange patterns.

Maybe that’s why he wasn’t as careful today.

Maybe that’s why, when he leaned a little too far forward in the water just to get a better look at what colors she brought this time, the sunlight caught him at a wrong angle.

Whatever the reason, he was sloppy.

Her eyes snapped toward him. And he froze.

She furrowed her brows, tilting her head as she stared directly at him. Not the vague searching glances of before. No, this time she saw him.

His heart hammered in his chest, and his pulse was loud in his ears.

She seemed confused, narrowing her eyes slightly as they traveled over his form, and Bucky realized with a jolt that to her, he probably looked like… well, like a man.

A man swimming in the cold autumn sea.

Without a suit.

Without reason.

Her gaze flicked over the rocks, then back to him, as if wondering where the hell he had come from because there was no easy way down from town, and she'd have seen anyone arriving from the path.

Still, instead of looking frightened, she just blinked at him, hesitated for a breath, and then lifted her hand in a casual wave.

A simple, almost amused gesture.

Hi, weird stranger.

He had faced hunters, poachers, and worse. Humans who would sooner try to catch him than greet him. But here she was, waving at him like he was just another odd townie swimming where he shouldn’t.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move, staring at her with narrowed eyes.

And then, as if realizing he’d already messed up by letting her see him, he dipped slightly lower into the water, letting only his head remain above the surface, but didn't turn away.

She watched him for a moment longer, waiting maybe for a response, before shrugging to herself and returning to her work, pulling out a soft teal yarn this time.

Still, Bucky didn’t stop watching. His mind twisted over and over on what had just happened.

She had seen him.

Seen him.

And instead of running, instead of panicking, she'd waved.

What kind of human sat on the edge of danger and smiled into it?

He sank a little deeper into the water, his blue eyes never leaving her, as she began to hum again, soft and low.

Something about her was wrong.

----

She tried to focus on her work, crocheting the teal yarn on autopilot, but her eyes kept darting -against her will- to the corner of her vision, where he was.

Still there.

Still watching.

At first, she’d thought he was just some local oddball, and God knew, every small town had at least a handful of those, but the longer she sat, the more her nervousness grew.

Who just stared at someone like that?

She shot another glance his way, careful not to turn her head fully.

Yup. Still there.

Still looking like he had nothing better to do than burn holes on her with his eyes.

Her fingers slowed. Okay. So maybe the old woman at the shop hadn’t been warning her about some spooky town legend. Maybe she’d been trying to warn her about him. Some town creep who liked to lurk around the cave and watch women from the water.

She frowned, looping the yarn tighter than necessary.

But if that were the case, wouldn’t the clerk have just said so? Something like “oh, by the way, steer clear of the guy who haunts the shore like a creep”?

Instead, she’d talked about danger in vague, almost superstitious terms. Like people did when they talked about ghosts or monsters.

Not flesh-and-blood men.

Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling crawling up her spine. Her fingers worked faster now, as if the act of crocheting could anchor her, steady her nerves. But her mind wouldn’t stop racing.

He didn’t look like some frail old hermit squatting in a cave.

No, he looked… fit. Broad-shouldered, all sharp angles and lean muscle, with dark hair slicked back by the sea water and something almost wild in the way he watched her. And handsome. Very handsome.

Wasn’t he cold?

It wasn’t summer out here. Even under the pale sun, the wind still bit, carrying the ocean’s chill. And there he was, bare, like it was nothing. She swallowed, slowing her fingers slightly as her thoughts tangled worse than her yarn.

Maybe he’s training? she tried to reason. Some kind of triathlete or swimmer. That would explain…

But her gaze flicked to him again, and this time, she caught the way his eyes followed the motion of her hands. Focused. Intense. Like a predator watching something small and unaware.

The back of her neck prickled.

Yeah, if this was training, it was training for something she didn’t want to be part of.

Still, she forced herself to stay put. She wasn’t going to let some weirdo scare her off from her favorite spot. But if tomorrow he was there, she might have to think about going somewhere else.

Or maybe ask around -casually- if anyone knew who the hell this guy was. Her hook slipped on a stitch, and she cursed under her breath. With a sharp sigh, she set the half-finished square in her lap and stared at the waves, refusing to let herself look at him again.

----

After a while observing her, he noticed she wasn’t as relaxed as moments ago, wasn’t humming under her breath or pausing now and then to watch the waves.

No, she kept glancing toward him. Not directly, but in those small, sharp ways people do when they know they're being watched.

Damn it.

He should’ve known better.

Should’ve realized when she saw him, when she waved at him like some clueless land dweller, that he should’ve backed off, and stayed out of sight for a while.

But no.

Instead, some part of him -the part that had gotten used to her presence, to the strange comfort of hearing her voice carried over the wind- had watched perhaps too much.

And now she was nervous.

He saw it in the way her shoulders tensed every time she shifted. In the way her fingers fumbled slightly, like her mind wasn’t really on what she was doing.

And worse, she was pretending he wasn’t there.

Why?

That worried him as he sank lower in the water, frustration twisting in his chest.

Why pretend? Why act like he wasn’t there when she clearly knew?

Was it some human game? Was she trying to ignore him to bait him into coming closer, or was she just scared and trying not to show it?

He scowled, flexing his claws against the rock. He didn’t want her to be afraid.

Or did he?

Wouldn’t that be better? If she feared him, maybe she’d stop coming here. His gaze drifted to the backpack at her side, the threads spilling out like a tangle of seaweed, as her hands worked almost feverishly.

What was she thinking?

Was she wondering if he was dangerous or if he would attack her?

Good.

She should wonder.

Because he wasn’t safe. Not by a long shot.

Still…

He ducked lower when she shifted, watching from behind a curtain of sea foam, blending his skin into the dark rock, but the damage was done. She knew.

And now that he’d seen that flicker of unease in her eyes, something ugly and cold twisted in his gut.

Why do you care? he snarled at himself. She was just another human. Just another threat.

But no matter how much he repeated it, his eyes stayed locked on her soft and tense form and the way her hands moved faster as if to drown out her thoughts.

Bucky let out a low hiss under his breath, more at himself than anything else.

He should leave.

He should let her be.

But he didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

And when she finally stood to leave, gathering her things and casting one last glance over her shoulder -wary, searching- he sank deeper into the waves, watching her go with a storm churning in his chest.

----

The first thing she did when she came home was head straight for the shower. The warm water rolled down her back, washing away the salt clinging to her skin and the tension from the strange encounter by the shore. She stayed under the spray longer than necessary, trying to shake the image of that man watching her with those sharp, unreadable eyes.

Once she was dry and wrapped in her softest clothes, she settled into the small nook by the window, with her laptop perched on her knees, and opened her shop’s page. There were a few new notifications: a sold pattern, a message from a customer asking about shipping times, and an inquiry about custom work.

She starting to reply to the messages when her phone buzzed suddenly, making her jump.

Arthur.

She huffed out a breath and picked up.

“Hey,” she greeted, leaning back against the cushions.

“Hey, you!” her cousin’s familiar voice filled the line. “Just wanted to check in. How’s the place? Are you settling alright?”

She smiled a little. “Yeah, it’s perfect, Arthur. Exactly what I needed the air’s doing wonders already.”

“That’s good to hear.” He paused, and she could almost picture him leaning on something, probably a counter or desk at his job. “You’re not getting too lonely, right? I know it’s kinda dead out of season.”

“I’m fine,” she assured him, glancing out the window at the gray sky, a reminder of the past days of rain. “Besides, I needed the quiet.”

There was a pause. She bit her lip, debating with herself, before blurting out, “Hey, listen… you wouldn’t happen to know if anyone in town trains for water sports, do you?”

Arthur blinked; she could hear it in the silence that followed her words. “What?”

She shifted, tucking one leg under herself. “I mean, like… open water swimming, or diving, or whatever. I saw someone today. Down by the rocks near the cave.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“You sure? Maybe it was just a seal or something? You said the weather was rough.”

She sighed with irritation. “Arthur, I believe I still know how to differentiate between a grown-ass man and a fucking seal, thank you very much.”

“Alright, alright,” he said quickly, but she could hear the edge of worry in his voice now. “It’s just… no one goes swimming there this time of year, or at any season, really. Is not exactly a place for casual swimmers.”

“Well, this guy didn’t seem to care,” she muttered.

Arthur was quiet again. Then, more serious, he added, “Look, just… don’t go back to that area, okay? Stick closer to the cottage. There’s plenty of shore to walk on the other side, yeah?”

She hesitated, flicking her gaze toward her backpack near the door, still full from today.

“Yeah,” she finally said, though the word tasted like a lie. “Probably won’t go back.”

Arthur sighed, clearly relieved. “Good. You know how towns are. You don’t wanna get mixed up with some weirdo. Just… be careful.”

“I will,” she promised, softer this time.

But as soon as the call ended and she set her phone down, she leaned back and stared out the window again.

Probably won’t go back, she had said.

Yeah, right.

She hated walking near the parts of the beach where people gathered. The ones who stayed all year round, the teens with their loud music and bonfires.

She liked her quiet spot.

And if that strange man -or whatever he was- showed up again…

Well.

She’d figure it out.

Maybe.

Probably.

She reached for her yarn backpack with a sigh, pulling out another project to keep her hands busy. But her mind stayed restless, wandering back to the man with sharp blue eyes and the way the sea seemed to ripple around him.

Next chapter

Dividers by @/kaitsawamura

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