I wedge my boot against a rock that feels distressingly loose, clinging to exposed tree roots as the path narrows between a wall of stone and a drop that will definitely be featured in my future nightmares.
My backpack digs into my shoulders with each step. Inside: a change of clothes, toothbrush, water, and enough protein bars to survive a minor apocalypse, and—buried at the bottom beneath a change of clothes—the lacy black underwear I impulse-bought last year and never had the occasion to wear. Until possibly now.
“Just don’t think about the fall,” I mutter to myself, trying not to focus on the jagged rocks waiting fifty feet below. “Think about what’s waiting at the end of this journey.”
Which is… what, exactly? A weekend hideaway with the cthulhu I’ve somehow stumbled into a relationship with?
God, my life has certainly taken a sharp left turn into uncharted waters.
The late-morning sun beats down on my shoulders, making the climb even more brutal. I’ve lived near these cliffs my entire life, but I’ve never ventured to this particular stretch of coastline. Dad always warned me away from here—too isolated if something went wrong, he’d said.
But isolation is exactly what we need right now.
After twenty more minutes of what feels like vertical rock-climbing disguised as hiking, the path suddenly levels out. Istop, gulping air and wiping sweat from my face with my shirtsleeve.
The coastline curves inward here, forming a sheltered cove invisible from both the sea and the main hiking routes. Smart choice for someone who needs to stay hidden.
And there it is—Roark’s cabin.
It’s not some rickety shack. The structure before me has weathered cedar siding and a slate roof, small but impeccably maintained. Wide windows face the water, and a covered porch wraps around one side. It’s the kind of hidden gem that real estate agents would label “rustic luxury” and charge half a million for.
I’m still catching my breath as I make my way down the final stretch of path. No smoke rises from the river rock chimney. No movement behind the windows. The place looks peaceful but empty.
My stomach does a weird flip-flop thing. We’d agreed on today, but never pinned down a time. Maybe he’s out hunting. Maybe there was some underwater emergency. Maybe he’s changed his mind about all of this.
I reach the porch and hesitate, suddenly feeling awkward.
I rap my knuckles against the solid oak door, then wait, shifting from foot to foot. The silence stretches out, broken only by seagulls arguing somewhere down the cliff face.
I knock again, louder this time. Nothing.
Okay, now what?
I peek through one of the windows, cupping my hands around my eyes to block the glare. The interior is dim but surprisingly homey—a single open room with different areas flowing into each other. A kitchen space with a woodstove. A living area with comfortable chairs and a desk. And in the far corner, a bed built into an alcove in the wall.
My face warms at the sight of that bed, memories of our last time together flashing unbidden through my mind.
I try the door handle—it turns easily.
“Roark?” I call, pushing the door open slowly. “It’s Ashe…”
The cabin smells like cedar and sea salt, with a faint undertone that’s distinctly Roark—like deep water and earth. The scent makes my skin prickle with a pleasant kind of anticipation.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
Silence. I set my backpack down by the door and try to ignore the twinge of disappointment.
Part of me had imagined finding him waiting, those gold-flecked eyes lighting up at the sight of me. But this gives me a chance to catch my breath and maybe discover a bit more about him without feeling self-conscious under his intense gaze.
I move deeper into the cabin, taking in the details. Everything is both beautiful and practical—handcrafted wooden furniture mixed with what looks like carefully salvaged pieces from ships or coastal homes. A brass telescope gleams by the largest window, and next to it sits a chart table with navigational instruments: a sextant, compass, and antique tide charts.
These aren’t just decorations. They’re the tools of Captain Sterling, the human persona Roark maintained for decades before the Great Unveiling forced him back into hiding.
I run my fingers lightly over the sextant, imagining Roark using it on some merchant vessel long ago, plotting his course by the stars. The instrument is polished to a high shine, clearly treasured.
Against one wall stands a bookcase packed with volumes in various states of weathering. Most are nautical in nature—navigation manuals, oceanography texts, histories of maritime trade.
But tucked among them are surprises: a collection of poetry, several classic novels, and what appears to be a comprehensive encyclopedia of undersea life that’s been heavily annotated in a precise, slanting hand.
