All Samara can see when she looks off to the horizon is your face waiting for her back in Galway—your presence is felt in the waves surrounding her, and she hears your voice in the breeze, even so far out at sea, aboard her beloved Wailing Jenny.

She had been content with the seafarer’s life for well over a decade. No ties. No promises. No one to answer to but herself and the tide. Her only commitment was to the crew, the ship, and the next thrilling voyage. Shore leave had always been a necessary evil—a chance to restock, refit, and take her pick of tavern flings before returning to the sea.

Galway changed that.

You changed that.

She met you during a night thick with fiddle music and the scent of mead, your laughter carrying across the room like a siren’s song. You—an elf with a crooked smile and quick wit, dressed in colors that clashed delightfully with your eyes. You had asked her to dance. She had said yes, if only to see what kind of spell you could cast with your feet. The two of you spun and twirled across the pub floor until morning crept in through the windows and even the band had grown tired.

She hadn’t meant to fall for you.

But gods, you made it easy.

Every moment spent with you had been burned into her memory like a brand. The way your hand fit perfectly in hers. The gentle rasp of your voice when you whispered something too quiet for anyone else to hear. The tears you tried to hide when you clung to her at the docks that final morning. She hadn't wanted to let go. Her crew saw the way her grip lingered. The way she kept glancing back.

It took nearly a year for her to return. Storms, pirates, trade routes, delays—all of it conspired to keep her away. But now? Now she’s back. And it’s Lá Fhéile Bríde—your favorite holiday.

The port is alive with music and celebration. Samara steps off the Wailing Jenny with purpose, the hem of her coat snapping in the wind, gold bangles chiming softly at her wrist. The lanterns strung between buildings paint the streets in hues of gold and rose, but all she sees is you—dancing barefoot in the square, skirts flying, cheeks pink with joy. Her breath catches.

You’re even more beautiful than she remembered.

She takes her time weaving through the crowd, not rushing, savoring every second of the sight of you. She doesn’t speak until she’s close enough to touch. Her fingers brush your shoulder gently, and as you turn, she leans in with a grin curling on her lips.

“Mind if I cut in, my little dove?” she whispers, her voice low, warm, and full of promises she’s finally ready to keep.