Chapter 3: Depths Revealed

The rest of the day was a tightrope walk over a canyon of anxiety. Grace tried to act normal, a performance so unconvincing it was painful. She retreated to her room, ostensibly to work on a painting, but she just stared at the blank canvas. Every time she reached for the cup of water to rinse her brushes, her hand hesitated, half-expecting the water to leap out and perform a ballet.

She could feel Angie’s presence in the apartment like a change in atmospheric pressure. Her roommate wasn’t hovering, but Grace was acutely aware of her. She’d hear the quiet turn of a page from the living room, the soft clink of a mug being set down. Every sound seemed layered with unspoken meaning. The playful teasing from the morning had evaporated, replaced by a patient, watchful silence that was infinitely more unnerving.

Grace abandoned her painting, the frustration a bitter taste in her mouth. She felt trapped in her own head, in her own home. Was she going crazy? Was this some kind of stress-induced hallucination? The events were too real, too tangible. The memory of the flood, the sight of the rippling water, the instant change in the shower’s temperature—they were sharp and clear, refusing to be dismissed as dreams.

By late afternoon, the tension had coiled into a knot in her stomach so tight she could barely breathe. She needed to get out of her room. She walked into the living room, the scene of the original crime, now the stage for her escalating panic.

Angie was curled in the oversized armchair, a thick, leather-bound book in her lap. She looked up as Grace entered, her hazel eyes calm and steady. “Hey,” she said softly.

“Hey,” Grace replied, her voice tight. She walked over to the coffee table and picked up the glass of water she’d left there that morning, needing something to do. She stared into it, her thoughts a maelstrom of fear and confusion. The knowing smiles, the wink, the way Angie was always twisting that silver ring. It wasn’t just about the orgasm; it was about everything that came after. Angie knew. She had to know.

“Are you just going to sit there and pretend everything is normal?” Grace finally burst out, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and desperation.

Angie marked her page with a leather bookmark and closed the book, setting it aside carefully. “What’s not normal, Grace?” she asked, her tone maddeningly even.

“Don’t! Don’t do that!” Grace snapped, whirling to face her. “Don’t play dumb. The water in the glass this morning. The shower. You saw it. You’ve been looking at me all day like… like you’re waiting for something! Am I losing my mind? Is that it? Because if I am, you need to tell me!”

The frustration peaked, a hot, searing wave. She was so tired of being scared, of feeling like a freak in her own skin. Her grip on the glass tightened, her knuckles white.

A low groan started in the walls around them.

It was a deep, guttural sound, like an ancient beast stirring from sleep. Grace froze, her eyes wide. The groan intensified, becoming a violent, shuddering rumble. The floor vibrated beneath her feet. The pipes in the walls began to knock and clang, a frantic, percussive rhythm of distress. The water in the glass she was holding sloshed wildly, spilling over her hand.

It felt like an earthquake, but it wasn't. The epicenter was right here. It was her.

Just as quickly as it began, the shuddering stopped. The silence that fell was heavy, thick with the dust of shattered normalcy. Grace was breathing in ragged gasps, staring at her hands as if they were alien things.

Angie rose from the chair, her movements fluid and deliberate. The playful roommate was gone. In her place was someone Grace had never seen before—someone older, more serious, whose eyes held the weight of secrets Grace couldn't begin to fathom.

“You’re not going crazy,” Angie said, her voice quiet but resonant in the still room.

Tears of frustration pricked at Grace’s eyes. “Then what is happening to me?” she whispered, the fight draining out of her.

Angie took a step closer. “Tell me what you’ve experienced. Everything. Starting with Friday night.”

Grace stared at her, her defenses crumbling under Angie’s steady gaze. She told her. The words tumbled out in a confused, panicked rush—the disastrous date, the frustration, the solo session on the couch. She described the orgasm, the feeling of a tide building inside her, and the shocking, impossible flood that had soaked Angie. Then she told her about the trembling water glass, and the shower instantly obeying her thoughts.

Angie listened without interruption, her expression unreadable but attentive. When Grace finished, her voice raw, Angie nodded slowly.

“The water responds to you,” Angie stated, not as a question, but as a fact. “It always has, you just never noticed. It reacts to your emotions. Your anxiety, your frustration…” she gestured to the walls, “…and your pleasure. Especially your pleasure.”

“But… why?” Grace asked, her voice barely a whisper. “What am I?”

Angie held her gaze. “You’re a Naiad, Grace.”

The word hung in the air between them, alien and absurd. Grace stared, then let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh. “A Naiad? What, like a myth? A water nymph from a fairy tale? That’s insane, Angie.”

“It’s not a fairy tale,” Angie replied, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “They are real. Elemental spirits, intrinsically tied to water, sometimes born into the human world, their powers dormant. Hidden. Until something happens to break the dam.”

Grace’s mind flashed back to Angie’s words from that morning. Looked like you were having a good time. It hadn’t been a tease. It had been an observation.

“Friday night,” Angie continued, her voice softening with something that sounded like empathy. “That wasn’t just a powerful orgasm, Grace. That was your Awakening. The moment your power, your very nature, became too strong to stay hidden any longer. It burst free.”

Grace sank onto the edge of the sofa—the very same sofa—her legs suddenly unable to support her. A Naiad. An Awakening. It was the plot of a fantasy novel, not her life. She was an art student from the suburbs who worked part-time as a barista. She wasn’t… magic.

Her world was tilting on its axis, the familiar lines of reality blurring into something strange and terrifying. A hundred questions swirled in her mind, but one rose above the rest, sharp and urgent.

“How?” she asked, looking up at the woman she thought she knew. “How do you know all of this? Who… who are you?”

Angie’s expression was somber, almost sad. She held up her right hand, her thumb stroking the simple silver ring she always wore. Grace now saw it wasn’t just a nervous tic; it was a deliberate, grounding gesture.

“My name is Angelica,” she said, her voice clear and formal. “The business major thing is a cover. I’m not here for a degree.”

She met Grace’s terrified, questioning eyes.

“I’m a Guardian. And I was sent here to find you.”