I was staring at the ocean.
Not looking — staring.
Long enough for the salt to scratch my thoughts open.
Long enough for something to rise from below.
That night, I wasn’t writing a story.
I was listening.
Something ancient moved beneath the deck.
Something with scales. With memory.
Something that had teeth.
I felt it press against me from the dark water.
Not cruel. Not kind. Just hungry.
And I thought:
What if it wasn’t trying to devour me?
What if it was… calling me home?
That’s how Beneath was born.
Not out of plot.
But pressure.
The pressure of being watched.
The pressure of desire that feels more like drowning than love.
Of writing with the sea inside me and hoping it doesn’t eat through the page.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/65724052















