Well, that answers whether he understands me.
“Okay then.” I take a breath and move forward. The wire cutters make quick work of the outer layers, but the deeper ones…That’s going to be trickier. I suddenly feel the need to chatter, if only to distract myself. “This is definitely not covered by my first aid certification. Though honestly, neither was that tourist who got his tongue stuck to the brass plaque in January, so I guess I’m used to improvising.”
His chest rumbles—maybe in pain, maybe in response to my babbling. But he stays still as I work, only occasionally tensing when I have to get closer to the deeper cuts.
The process is slow, delicate, and weirdly intimate. Every time I have to lean in close to work at a particularly tangled section, I catch that faint shimmer in his skin. It’s mesmerizing—like the northern lights decided to go swimming.
“Almost done with this section,” I murmur, more to fill the silence than anything else. “Though I have to say, as far as Friday nights go, this is definitely more exciting than my usual routine of watching sailing documentaries.”
His tentacle taps once against the floor, and I swear the corners of his mouth twitch. Is he… laughing at me?
“What, you’re not into nautical history?” I get back to work on a stubborn knot. “I’ll have you know I can name every famous shipwreck from here to Nova Scotia. Though I guess you probably know them firsthand, huh?”
When I glance up, his eyes are intensely fixed on me. There’s something about the way he watches me—like I’m a puzzle he’strying to solve. Like he can’t quite figure out why I’m helping him.
Join the club, buddy.
I shift to work on another section, and suddenly one of his tentacles brushes against my arm. The touch is feather-light, barely there, but it sends electricity shooting through my whole body. His skin is impossibly smooth, and the gentle suction of those cups…
“Sorry,” I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathy. “Did I hurt you?”
Two taps. No.
The tentacle retreats, but slowly, almost reluctantly. And now I’m thinking about those suckers, about how all those tiny little kisses would feel pressed against…
Nope. Clearly living alone in a lighthouse for several years has driven me mad. No sane woman would be fantasizing about—
“Anyway!” I continue, hoping he can’t read my mind in addition to everything else. “There. That’s the worst of it.”
I step back to survey my handiwork and realize that I’m trembling. Adrenaline crash, that’s what I tell myself. It’s not because of the weight of his gaze or the strange, magnetic pull I feel toward this wounded creature.
I clear my throat and focus on the first aid kit, rummaging until I find a bottle of iodine. “Now comes the fun part.”
His eyes track my every movement as I unscrew the cap, his beard tentacles flaring as he scents the air.
“I need to disinfect these cuts,” I explain, holding up the bottle. “And let me tell you, this is definitely gonna sting like a…” I trail off, not sure what would be the aquatic equivalent of “like a hornet.”
A smile spreads across his lips before he offers, “A Portuguese Man o’ War, perhaps?”
He speaks full sentences!
“I…” Now I’m the one who’s turned mono-syllabic. “Yes. Portuguese Man o’ War. Exactly. Stingy. Very stingy.” I pour iodine onto a clean towel, determined to regain my composure. “So… I’m going to use this to clean your wounds, okay? It’s going to burn, but you don’t want to risk infection. Can you hold still for me?”
His eyes never leave mine, and now his voice is almost a purr. “Of course. I trust you.”
Those simple words carry so much weight coming from him. From any cthulhu, really. I can barely breathe as I press the towel gently against his wounds. His skin is hot to the touch, and I feel his muscles tense beneath my hands. But he holds perfectly still, even as his breathing quickens.
Working with his wounds is like trying to detail a living muscle car—there’s raw power under my hands, barely contained. Every time I press the towel to a new cut, his tentacles ripple and flex. The iodine must sting like hell, but he doesn’t make a sound.
“So,” I say, desperate to distract both of us, “do you make it a habit of crashing into random boathouses, or am I special?”
His laugh is deep. “I was… pursuing something.”
“A white whale?”
“Poachers,” he says, and the word carries enough venom to make me pause. “They were hunting in my waters.”
“Your waters?”
