Roark has squeezed his bulk into my narrow galley kitchen, with one tentacle braces against the counter to keep his balance. The sight of him there, domestic and focused, does something funny to my chest.
Four tentacles are busy at my stovetop, while his hands chop herbs I didn’t even know I owned. Another tentacle stirs something that smells divine, and yet another… I lose track of it until it reaches past me to grab a spice jar, the slight brush against my hip making my skin tingle.
“You can cook?” I blurt out.
“I thought you might appreciate a proper meal,” he says. “I started as a cook on a ship, so I know my way around a kitchen. Though, as I’ve perhaps mentioned before, your spice collection leaves much to be desired, so this won’t be my best work.”
“Sorry my kitchen isn’t up to standard,” I say, but there’s no bite to it. I’m too busy watching him work, mesmerized by the fluid grace of his movements, and just how damn good dinner is smelling.
“I found some dried herbs in the back of your cupboard,” he says, a tentacle gesturing to a small jar. “Though I suspect they’re as old as the lighthouse itself.” He then presents me with a wooden spoon in his hand, some kind of sauce gleaming on its tip. Without thinking, I lean forward and taste.
The flavors—garlic and herb—elicits a small sound from my lips. When I open my eyes, I find Roark watching me intensely.
“Good?” he asks with a satisfied smile. The same satisfied smile I saw last night, after…
I simply nod.
“Sit,” he says, interrupting my increasingly heated thoughts. “You look exhausted.”
I sink into one of my mismatched kitchen chairs, the old wood creaking. “Long day,” I admit. “Apparently, everyone and their mother wanted a lighthouse tour today. And their cousin. And their cousin’s roommate’s dog.”
He slides a glass of water in front of me with one hand. The casual domesticity of it catches me off guard, and something hot pricks at the corners of my eyes. When was the last time someone had taken care of me like this?
“You’re crying,” Roark says, alarm coloring his tone. In an instant, I’m surrounded by tentacles, one gently brushing my cheek while others hover uncertainly.
“No, no, I’m fine,” I say quickly, but my voice cracks. “It’s just… No one’s cooked for me since Dad died. I forgot what it felt like to come home to someone.”
His tentacles curl around me, not restraining but supporting, like being held in a gentle embrace.
“My kind are not meant for solitude either,” Roark says quietly, his ancient eyes fixed on me. “We are pod creatures by nature. I recognize the same weight of isolation in you, Ashe.”
Before I can respond, one of the pots boils over and he’s gone from my side, just like that. As he tends to the stove, my gaze drifts to the counter where I spot one of my books laid open—anold volume on maritime history I’d inherited from Dad. “Been doing some light reading?”
“Ah.” Is it my imagination, or does Roark look almost sheepish? “I hope you don’t mind. I found myself curious about your collection. Though I must say, Captain Miller’s account of the storm of 1932 is wildly exaggerated. The waves were thirty feet at most, not the fifty he claims.”
I blink. “Wait, you were there?”
“Mm. Though I was quite young then.” His tentacles wave in what I’m learning is his equivalent of a shrug. “Miller was prone to dramatics, but he was a decent sort. Always left offerings for the sea creatures—bread and wine, very old world.”
I want to ask for more details, but my stomach growls loud enough to probably wake the ghosts Mrs. Henderson was so worried about.
“Goodness,” Roark remarks. “Enough chit-chat. I need to plate your dinner.”
“Yeah, okay,” I concede. “But afterward, you’re telling me more about Captain Miller. And…” I hesitate, curiosity getting the better of my exhaustion. “I’d like to know how you ended up being a sea captain yourself.”
One of his tentacles pauses mid-stir, and something flickers across his expression—nostalgia maybe, or grief. “Oh, that’s a long story.”
“I’m sure it is. But I’d like to hear it.”
He glances back at me, and his tentacle beard lifts in a smile. “Well, all right.” With that, he’s already moving again, plating the tastiest fish I’ve ever seen, complete with some kind of herb sauce.
When he sets the plate in front of me, the presentation is beautiful—the fish nestled on a bed of herbs, the sauce drizzled just so.
He hesitates then, hovering near the counter, his massive form somehow managing to look uncertain. It hits me that this might be the first time he’s shared a proper meal with anyone in… decades?
“Join me?” I motion at the chair across from mine, trying not to think too hard about how this feels weirdly like a date.
His tentacles curl inward, almost shy, before he carefully arranges himself in the chair. It creaks ominously, but holds. “I… haven’t done this in a very long time,” he admits.
