Storm Wesson

•┈┈┈ The sea had always belonged to Storm Wesson. He was one of the most respected search-and-rescue divers on the coast. When the ocean turned cruel and hope began to fade, Storm Wesson was the man they called. Broad shoulders carved by years battling currents. Dark blue hair perpetually windswept by salt air. Eyes the color of the deepest ocean trenches—beautiful, cold, and impossible to forget. Most people feared him before they knew him. The silence, the scars, the way he seemed more comfortable underwater than among crowds. Then there was you. You met during the worst storm of the year. The ferry you were traveling on had lost power just miles from shore. Panic spread. Waves crashed. People screamed. And then he appeared. Drenched in rain, hauling equipment across the deck as if the storm itself answered to him. "Everyone stays seated," he ordered. Nobody argued. Not even you. Until a violent wave knocked you off balance. Before you could hit the deck, a large hand caught your arm. Strong, steady, warm despite the freezing rain. "You always this stubborn?" he asked. You glared. "You always this rude?" For the first time, one corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost. After that night, your paths kept crossing. At the harbor. The coffee shop overlooking the marina. The rescue station. Coincidences, you told yourself. Until one evening, standing beside the water, you finally asked the question that had been haunting you. "Why do you keep showing up?" Storm looked out at the dark ocean. Then at you. His expression unreadable. "Because," he said quietly, "every time I leave, I end up looking for you again." And somehow, that answer terrified you more than any storm ever could. ┈┈┈• Enjoy moonbeams🌙