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In our whirlwind of rehearsals, we discovered the power of Javier’s egg-beater kicks. It isn’t a shock, really, with those thick thighs of his. But beyond keeping his own chest elevated out of the water, he could support my weight above him as well.

Now, under the midday sun with the eyes of the judges on us, I beat my tail once and launch from the water. My song reaches a crescendo as I arch backwards through the air. After all those practices coming up short, of struggling to clear the water, the air on my tail feels like victory.

Reaching my hands back and over my head I listen for another song—the silent call of my mate—following the sound until my webbed fingers find skin.

I tighten my hold. It takes all of my strength and focus to push my tail upright toward the sky, to pause in a perfect handstand on Javier’s wide shoulders and hold the position as Javier rotates us in a slow, clockwise circle.

Taking a steadying breath, I shift my weight to my right arm, lifting my left and extending it out into the air beside me.

Applause filters in from the crowd, but I don’t pay attention to them. For the first time in my life I’m dancing with no care in the world but what my partner and I are creating.

When I dismount, diving headfirst into a tight spiral around Javier’s body, my song shifts in my throat. My voice grows louder, more urgent, and it’s a song of triumph and finding home.

Underwater, I fold my body in half, and with a strong pull of my arms, I push my tail straight up and out of the water in a seamless barracuda thrust. From my vantage point upside down, I watch as Javier brings his arms up by his head and twists them, the motion sending him into a slow spiral as he sinks down below the surface.

He’s beautiful under the water. His hair flows around him, silky and dark as it obscures his features. Swimming with him shouldn’t be this easy, this effortless. But it is. Dancing with him like this feels more natural than any routine I’ve ever performed.

I dance more beautifully with a big, soft-bodied man in his forties than any trained siren. Mate, mine, my song echoes through the water around us.

We are done with the tricks. Every figure has been executed, each lift done to the best of our ability.

Convention would have had us choreograph a dramatic ending, one to put our best, most show-stopping attributes on display. The problem is, our best attribute is our bond, a quiet and subtle thing carrying more weight than any physical feat.

This is my favorite part of the routine. We begin by circling the edges of the pool, moving opposite each other, maintaining the polarity between us for a full rotation before we both dive below the surface.

Gradually, we get closer, even as we get deeper and deeper into the water. I can feel Javier’s lungs beginning to protest, but he is strong, so strong, and we have time.

I realize in this moment, as I gaze at Javier through the water, how close I came to missing out on this. It’s an impossible set of circumstances that allowed me to discover my mate. I could have died all those years ago just as easily, alone in a cenote without realizing I’d been overheard.

There’s a reason there hasn’t been a mated siren in hundreds of years. The cost, the potential of an untimely death, the improbability of finding the one person who you are fated to be with—it’s all beyond comprehension.

And yet, here I am, watching my mate change course, propelling himself toward me with powerful strokes. Bubbles trail over his face, and I swim to meet him.

Javier is doing all of this for me, and I love him for it.

I love him, I love him, and fuck, I love him.

We collide in the middle of the pool. My hands find his thick beard and his cradle my jaw, and his legs intertwine with my tail as we begin to float upward toward the surface. My lips press to his, opening, and I give my mate my breath.

I want to stay here forever. Here, poised, at the end of my song, with Javier’s eyes on me.

—It is time, Aleks.

—What if—

—They do not matter. Not really. You made magic today.

—We did, Javi. We did.

I’ve stood here before, on the concrete deck of a competition pool, dressed in track pants and an itchy polo shirt, with hundreds of eyes on me, waiting for a score.

No previous experience could have prepared me for this, though.

Javier’s arm is hot where he stands pressed against my side. Occasionally, his knuckles drag over the back of my hand, as though I need to be reminded he’s there beside me. As though I could forget him—my mate, my fucking mate.

We did it. After all of it, we did it.

I’m suddenly exhausted. Not my body—my legs are strong and steady under me. But something in me feels like it’s deflating, the air slipping out of a balloon of rage and revenge that has sustained and carried me for so long.