Mr. Demon

Chapter Two: My Husband Smells Like the Han River

(Lena – POV)

When you marry a merman, no one warns you about the smell.

Not a bad smell. Just… river. Clean water, algae, rain-soaked stone, and something faintly fishy that never fully goes away no matter how many scented candles you light. Our apartment near Mapo smells like the Han River permanently, as if the river itself has claimed us as property.

My husband, Corin, insists it’s “natural.”

“I literally come from the river,” he says every time I complain, offended and dripping water all over the bathroom floor.

I met Corin three years ago while working as a night-shift cleaner along the riverwalk. I was tired, underpaid, and extremely annoyed when I slipped on wet stone and fell straight into the water. I would have drowned—no exaggeration—if a very confused merman hadn’t grabbed me by the collar and hauled me out like an abandoned bag of trash.

He stared at me. I stared at him. He had gills, silver-blue hair, and the most apologetic expression I had ever seen.

“I am so sorry,” he said, bowing—bowing—while half submerged. “You weren’t supposed to fall.”

That’s how I met my future husband. By almost dying. Very romantic.

Corin was new to land then. Curious. Clumsy. He asked too many questions, like why humans wear shoes indoors sometimes and why street food smells better at night. He followed me around the riverwalk like a lost puppy, occasionally diving back into the water to “re-hydrate his thoughts.”

We started meeting secretly. I brought him snacks—fish cakes, rice balls, tteokbokki without too much spice because apparently spice is very aggressive to aquatic species. He told me stories about underwater cities hidden beneath the Han, glowing with bioluminescent algae and guarded by grumpy old turtle spirits who hate humans but love gossip.

Falling in love with him was slow and accidental. Like a river carving stone.

The problems started after marriage.

First: water.

Corin cannot stay dry. Ever. Our bathroom floor is always wet. Our towels are always damp. Our couch? Slightly moist. I once found seaweed in the kitchen sink and cried for ten full minutes.

Second: children.

Our twins, Hana and Minjae, are… complicated.

They look human, mostly. Two arms, two legs, round cheeks. But they have small gills behind their ears and need daily water immersion or they get cranky and itchy. Bath time is mandatory, non-negotiable, and lasts forever.

The neighbors noticed eventually.

“Why do your children splash so much?” Mrs. Kim from downstairs asked suspiciously.

“They’re… energetic,” I replied, as Minjae dove headfirst into the tub and Hana yelled, “I’M A FISH PRINCESS!”

Corin smiled proudly. I hid behind the doorframe.

Raising interspecies children in Korea is… interesting. Schools aren’t equipped for gills. Swimming lessons are awkward. Parent-teacher meetings are exhausting.

But some things are easier than I expected.

Corin is gentle. Patient. He sings old river songs while cooking and insists on bowing to elders, even when they glare at his faintly shimmering skin. He brings me water lilies because he thinks they’re romantic. He listens when I complain about work. He always comes home, no matter how late the tide calls him.

Sometimes, at night, we sit by the river together. He dips his feet into the water, and I lean against him, breathing in that familiar river smell. Lanterns reflect across the surface, and I swear the water glows brighter when he’s near.

We aren’t normal. But neither is anyone else, really.

We attend interspecies gatherings now. Rhex and Ari came once—Rhex looking nervous about the water, Ari trying to convince him that he wouldn’t dissolve. A dragon woman visited too, politely refusing to sit too close to the river “just in case.”

Our apartment becomes loud, chaotic, and full of laughter. Water splashes. Fire hisses. Someone always knocks something over.

And yet, it feels like family.

People ask me if it’s hard loving someone who isn’t human.

I tell them the truth.

It’s hard loving anyone.

The difference is that my husband hums with the river, my children laugh underwater, and my life smells like rain and salt and home.

And honestly?

I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

.. .