She moves with surprising efficiency, gathering tools and setting up her light. The confidence in her movements fascinates me.
When she approaches with wire cutters, instinct makes my tentacles twitch defensively. She freezes, waiting until I settle before proceeding. Her respect for my boundaries—for my power—stirs something in me I’d thought long dormant.
“I’m going to start with this section here,” she says, her voice even despite the tremor in her hands.
She talks as she works—nervous chatter about lighthouse keeping, about tourists, about sailing documentaries—and I’m entranced not by her words but by the cadence of her voice. How long has it been since someone spoke to me as though I were worthy of conversation?
I study her. The furrow between her brows as she concentrates. The methodical precision of her fingers despite their trembling.The rain-slicked tendrils of auburn hair clinging to her neck. In my century of life, I’ve observed humans from a distance, sometimes walked among them disguised, but never been this close to a female without pretense.
When one of my tentacles brushes against her arm—pure accident, a spasm of pain—her breath catches. The sensation electrifies me, every sucker awakening to the feel of her skin. Warm. Soft. Alive. My body responds with embarrassing eagerness to this simple touch.
“Sorry,” she breathes, misinterpreting my reaction. “Did I hurt you?”
I tap twice against the floorboards. No. Far from it. Each brush of her fingers sends currents through me like deep-sea thermal vents—hot and primal and overwhelming.
My tentacles twitch with unfamiliar impulses—to explore, to taste, to understand these sensations that threaten to drown me. I force them still, though one refuses to retreat entirely from where it touched her arm. Like a compass finding north, it strains toward her.
“I need to disinfect these cuts,” she says, holding up a brown bottle. “And let me tell you, this is definitely gonna sting like a…” she trails off, clearly searching for words.
“A Portuguese Man o’ War, perhaps?” The suggestion rolls off my tongue before I can stop it—an awkward attempt at engagement that surprises us both.
Her eyes widen, and something flashes across her face—surprise that quickly melts into the beginning of a smile. “Yes. Portuguese Man o’ War. Exactly. Stingy. Very stingy.”
She pours the brown liquid onto a clean towel, movements precise despite her nervousness. “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?”
The care in her question stills something wild in my chest. No one has asked me such things, treated me with such… consideration. “Of course,” I hear myself saying. “I trust you.”
From her slight intake of breath, I can tell the words surprise us both. But they’re true. In this moment, with her hands hovering above my wounds and her eyes meeting mine without disgust, I trust her more than I’ve trusted any other being.
When she presses the disinfectant-soaked towel against the first wound, fire lances through me. My tentacles tighten reflexively, coiling against the floor. Yet it’s not the pain that tests my control—it’s her proximity.
The gentle pressure of her hand. The concentration in her eyes. The subtle scents of her body that register each time I inhale.
“So,” she says, working methodically, “do you make it a habit of crashing into random boathouses, or am I special?”
Her attempt at levity catches me off guard. I’ve spent so long either hiding my true nature or being feared for it. This casual banter is… disarming. “I was… pursuing something.”
“A white whale?”
A literary reference. Unexpected. “Poachers,” I explain, unable to keep the venom from my voice. “They were hunting in my waters.”
She pauses, towel hovering above a particularly deep gash. “Your waters?”
I raised one clawed hand, gesturing toward the storm-lashed windows. “I protect this coast.” The admission feels strange on my tongue. I’ve never told anyone of my self-appointed role.
Her eyes widen slightly, and I catch the subtle shift in her perception. I’m not just a wounded creature to her now—I’m a sentinel, a guardian. Someone with purpose. Her hands resume their work, each touch more deliberate than before.
When she reaches the junction where torso meets tentacles—where my skin is thinner, more sensitive—the jolt of sensation proves too much. A tentacle reflexively wraps around her waist.
“Sorry,” she breathes, but she doesn’t pull away. “Did that hurt?”
My pupils dilate as I drink in her nearness, the way her pulse quickens under my grip. “No,” I manage, struggling to keep myvoice steady. “Quite the opposite. I’m… exceedingly sensitive in that spot.”
She swallows hard, and I watch the motion of her throat with a fascination that borders on obsession. I’ve never touched anyone like this—never allowed myself such an indulgence. The intimacy staggers me.
Each suction cup registers her warmth through the fabric of her clothing, mapping the subtle contours of her waist. The primitive part of my brain whispers how she’d fit perfectly in my grasp, that my arms and six tentacles could easily explore every inch of her at once.
I force these thoughts down, ashamed of my body’s reaction. She’s helping me—not offering herself as a mate. The distinction matters.
