The door opens with a protesting creak, and Ashe practically dives inside, pressing her back against it as if barricading herselffrom unwanted attention. Her arms are laden with brown paper bags from the market, and her cheeks are flushed with frustration rather than exertion. She blows a stray strand of hair from her face and lets out a long breath that seems to deflate her entire body.
“Everything all right?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral despite the curiosity burning through me. The urge to probe deeper wars with my instinct to protect old secrets—not all of them my own to reveal.
“Just the museum director being… persistent.” She sets down her bags with more force than necessary, and several apples try to make a break for freedom. I catch them with a quick tentacle as she continues, “Sebastian Walsh practically ambushed me at the market. He’s always trying to get more involved with the lighthouse operations. As if I haven’t been managing fine on my own for years.”
I carefully school my expression, though my tentacles curl tighter against my body, betraying my unease. Sebastian Walsh. Itishim, then. The same man who… but no.
This isn’t my secret to share, and revealing his true nature would only complicate matters.
“Sounds rather forward of him,” I offer instead, moving to help her with the bags. My tentacle brushes her hand as I lift them, and we both pause at the contact.
The touch lingers, neither of us pulling away immediately. Her skin is cool from the morning air, and I can feel her pulse quicken where my sucker rests against her wrist.
Ashe clears her throat and busies herself with unpacking the supplies, though her movements aren’t quite as steady as usual. “I got what I could from the market to supplement whatever I can catch—about fifteen pounds of fish. Mostly cod and haddock.” She gestures to the largest bag, trying to maintain a professional demeanor that’s betrayed by the slight flush creeping up her neck. “It’s not enough for a healing cthulhu, though, is it?”
“It’s more than generous,” I say, though we both know it isn’t sufficient. My kind requires substantial sustenance to heal, especially from wounds as severe as these.
“I’ll head out now and catch the rest.” She moves to a cabinet, pulling out well-worn fishing gear that speaks of years of use. “Dad’s old boat is still seaworthy, and I know where the best spots are. He taught me every hidden reef and sandbar in these waters.”
Her voice catches slightly on ‘Dad,’ and every part of me wants to comfort her. Instead, I say, “You needn’t go to such trouble. I can manage with—”
“Don’t you dare say you can manage with less.” She whirls to face me, gray eyes flashing with that fierce determination I’m growing dangerously fond of. “You’re healing. You need proper nutrition. And I won’t have you stuck eating whatever scraps I can scrounge from the market.”
The protectiveness in her voice makes my skin patterns ripple. “Your kindness continues to humble me,” I say softly, watching as she checks her gear with the expertise of someone born to the sea. “Though I worry about drawing attention to your fishing activities.”
“Let me worry about that.” She tests the tension in her line with practiced fingers. “Besides, I’ve been meaning to get back out there. It’s… It’s time.”
Understanding flows between us like a current. I know better than anyone that healing requires facing what we’ve lost.
“When things settle down,” she adds, shouldering her tackle box, “I’d love to hear some stories from your captain days. Bet you’ve seen some interesting things out there.”
“More than a few,” I admit, admiring how naturally she moves with the weight of her gear. “Though I suspect you have quite a few tales of your own. The sea doesn’t give up its secrets easily.”
“Nothing like commanding a merchant vessel, but I’ll trade you story for story sometime.” Her smile holds a warmth that makes my hearts stutter. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. That should give me enough time to catch what you need and still prep for the noon tours.”
She pauses at the door, expression turning serious. “Just… Stay quiet up here while I’m gone? And when I return, remember the tours don’t come through the private quarters, but sound carries in this old building.”
“I remember well how to keep secrets,” I assure her, though my tentacles betray my concern for her safety by reaching toward her. “Be careful out there. The morning tide can be treacherous.”
“Always am.” Ashe gifts me one last smile before slipping out the door, leaving me with the lingering scent of salt air and the warmth of her regard.
Chapter 7
Captain’s Table
Ashe
After the last tour finally leaves, I drag myself across the short walk to my quarters, feeling like my arms have been replaced with overcooked noodles. My hair has achieved what I fondly call “sea witch chic,” and I’m pretty sure there’s still a piece of dried kelp stuck somewhere in my bun from this morning’s fishing expedition.
The sun’s just starting to set, painting the landscape outside in amber and gold. Usually this is my favorite time of day—when the tourists clear out and I can just watch the light change over the water.
But keeping up appearances while harboring a massive cthulhu is turning out to be an Olympic-level sport, and I’m ready to face-plant into my bed and not move until the lighthouse crumbles into the sea.
The key finally clicks home, and when I push open the door, the smell hits me like a wave. Something rich and garlicky and… edible? It’s definitely not the usual bouquet of instant ramen and regret that perfumes my kitchen.
My stomach growls, reminding me that lunch was a granola bar eaten between tours while trying to convince Mrs. Henderson that no, the lighthouse isn’t haunted, those are just normal settling noises, please step back from the railing.
I kick off my boots, leaving them in their usual heap by the door, and follow my nose toward the kitchen. The floorboards creak familiar hellos under my feet as I round the corner and stop dead in my tracks.
