I pull out one of the books—a leather-bound journal with no title on the spine. Inside, the same handwriting covers page after page. Dates from the 1980s head each entry. Captain Sterling’s log.
I know I shouldn’t read it. These are his private thoughts. But my fingers are already turning to a random page from July 1987:
Human customs continue to confound me. Today the first mate’s wife presented him with a cake and gifts for something called a “birthday,” celebrating the day of his birth with candles representing his years.
The ritual involves making secret wishes while extinguishing fire. When asked about my own birthday, I fabricated a date—December 25th—only to discover this coincides with a major religious holiday.
The crew found this hilarious. Apparently sharing one’s “birthday” with their deity figure is both fortunate and inconvenient for celebration planning…
I can’t help but smile at his clinical analysis of birthday parties. There’s something endearing about imagining him puzzling over human traditions, carefully maintaining his cover while navigating the foreign landscape of our social customs.
I flip forward a few pages:
I remain uncertain whether my experience of loneliness is equivalent to the human condition. Iris suggests it is universal, but I observe humans seeking each other constantly, forming bonds and breaking them with a frequency that suggests they find the process less painful than I would.
Perhaps my species feels connection more deeply, having evolved in an environment where isolation often means death…
The words hit uncomfortably close to home. I close the journal and return it to its place, feeling like I’ve accidentally glimpsed something too intimate.
Crossing to the kitchen area, I find it surprisingly well-equipped. There’s even an old icebox that’s still working—likely stocked with ice he harvests from the colder waters offshore. Inside are fresh fish fillets, neatly wrapped, and basic cooking supplies. The man eats many pounds of seafood daily but still keeps condiments. There’s something weirdly touching about that.
My gaze wanders to the sleeping area, where a built-in platform bed sits, with a thick mattress and a comfortable quilt. Navy blue, of course. I snort softly. Even his bedding choices are nautical.
Without really deciding to, I drift toward it, exhaustion from the hike suddenly catching up to me. I’ve been up since dawn, nervous energy propelling me through lighthouse chores at record speed before I could set out for this hidden cove.
I hesitate, then sit on the edge of the bed. It’s blissfully comfortable, the mattress giving just enough under my weight. Tentatively, I lean down and press my face to the pillow, inhaling. His scent is stronger here, and something warm unfurls in my chest.
“Just resting my eyes,” I murmur to the empty cabin, stretching out fully on the bed. I should probably leave his personal space alone, but the combination of the strenuous hike and the comfort of being surrounded by his things is too powerful to resist.
I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes. He’ll probably be back soon anyway…
The sound of the door opening startles me awake. Golden light fills the cabin—afternoon sunlight, not morning. I bolt upright, disoriented.
A massive silhouette fills the doorway, momentarily backlit before stepping into the cabin. Roark, carrying a large net bag full of—well, something oceanic and probably still moving.
“Ashe.” His voice sends a pleasant shiver down my spine. “You came.”
There’s a note of surprise in his tone. Did he think I wouldn’t?
“Said I would, didn’t I?” I manage, suddenly aware that I’m rumpled and probably have pillow creases on my face. “Sorry, I fell asleep waiting.”
Roark sets his catch by the door and moves toward me, his humanoid torso and muscular arms bare above his powerful tentacles. Water still clings to his iridescent skin, making it shimmer in the slanting sunlight.
He’s breathtaking—otherworldly and yet somehow more real than anything else in my life.
“You’re tired.” He studies me with concern. “The journey was difficult?”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, trying to smooth my hair into something less resembling a seagull’s nest. “Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly a stroll.”
His mouth quirks up at one corner. “The challenge of access is a feature, not a flaw. It has kept this place undisturbed for years.”
“Well, it’s beautiful.” I look around the sun-drenched cabin. “Really beautiful. Worth the climb.”
Roark moves closer, one tentacle extending almost unconsciously toward me before he seems to catch himself. There’s an endearing hesitancy in the gesture, as if he’s not sure of his welcome despite what we’ve shared.
“I’m pleased you think so.” His formal phrasing contrasts with the naked emotion in his eyes.
For a moment, we simply look at each other. The air between us feels charged with a week’s worth of unspoken thoughts and phantom touches.
