Scene 13 — The Quiet After.md

The water is barely moving.

Just the faintest drift of current, slow and circular, the kind that means deep water sheltered from wind. You're on the bank where it's shallow enough to rest, belly on smooth cool mud, the temperature of everything around you seeping gently into your skin and settling there like permission.

He's at your back. His breathing is slow. You found his rhythm a while ago without meaning to, your own breath falling into the same long unhurried pace, in and out, the water barely disturbing with each exhale.

His chin rests between your ears.

You can feel the weight of it. Small and certain and warm. His fins are slack against your back, the frill of him draped soft along your neck. His tail has found yours somewhere in the dark water below and holds there loosely, the way sleeping things hold. Not gripping. Just staying.

The world is dark and cool and quietly perfect.

Your eyes are already closed. Have been for a while. The body is heavy in the best possible way, that deep surrender of muscle that has no reason left to stay ready. Paws soft. Tail still. The slit smooth and untroubled and exactly as it should be.

His breathing slows another degree. You follow it down.

Still here, he murmurs. Just that. Not even words really, more the shape of them, the sound.

You don't answer. Don't need to.

The water holds you both.