Gullwatch in the afternoon smelled like salt, fish oil, and wet wood that had learned to live with the sea.
The inn sat near the dock-lane where sailors, hunters, and caravan crews funneled through like tidewater—shoulders hunched against wind, boots dirty with sand and mud, faces pinched by long roads and short tempers. Its signboard creaked on iron hooks: a painted gull with a comically drooping wing, the kind of image that promised shelter more than pride.
Locals didn't call it by the painted name anyway.
Winking Widow.
Ronan understood why the moment he stepped inside.
Warmth hit him first. A hearth crackling hard enough to fight back the coastal chill. The noise followed: benches scraping, mugs clinking, voices layered over each other like nets thrown into the same sea. It was busy—full busy, the kind that made a roof feel precious.
And in the middle of it all, Rowena moved like a storm trapped in an apron.
She was behind the counter, then she was at a table, then she was in the kitchen doorway with a stack of bowls, then she was back again with a rag in hand, wiping a spill before it could become a fight. She smiled at one guest, scolded another, apologized to a third—sometimes all in the same breath.
Kind, Ronan thought immediately.
And exhausted.
Her horns—curving dark against her hair—should've made her look intimidating. Instead they somehow made her look more… expressive. Like a part of her that had to live honestly even when she didn't want to. They tilted when she listened, stiffened when someone raised their voice, and—when she turned too quickly and bumped her hip into the counter—twitched in sheer, mortified annoyance.
She hissed under her breath, then forced a bright smile at the patron nearest her like nothing had happened.
Ronan didn't walk up and announce himself. The inn was too tight, too frantic, too close to chaos. Introducing a new variable in the middle of a rush was a good way to make everything worse.
So he waited near the wall, letting his eyes adjust, taking the inn in like a raid map.
Layout: dining area packed, counter near the hearth, kitchen door behind it, stairs to rooms on the left. Two serving girls? No—one. And she looked about fourteen and terrified. No bouncer. No guard. A few adventurers with weapons leaned within easy reach, but that wasn't security; that was coincidence.
Rowena spun toward the door again, clearly tracking movement by instinct. Her gaze landed on Ronan.
For a heartbeat, she blinked—caught between welcoming and the urgent problem of having twelve other people who needed something right now.
"Welcome!" she called, voice warm and slightly breathless. "Sit anywhere you can—sorry, it's a bit of a mess!"
Then she was gone, swept away by a sailor snapping his fingers like she was a servant and not the owner.
Ronan chose a table near the side, half-hidden but with a clear view of the whole room. He sat with his back to the wall out of habit and set his bag at his feet. The charm from Tessa rested against his chest like a small, steady pulse.
He watched.
Rowena poured ale with one hand, ladled stew with the other. She swapped plates, wiped spills, broke up a brewing argument with a laugh and a firm look. Twice she nearly tripped—once over a stray stool leg, once over her own skirt—and both times she recovered with a flustered smile that made the room feel… softer.
Not safer. Just human.
A few minutes later, she appeared at his table like she'd remembered him mid-tornado.
"Sorry," she said quickly. "I didn't forget you, I just—" She gestured helplessly at the packed room. "You know."
"I know," Ronan said.
Her eyes flicked over him—cloak, sword, posture. She straightened a fraction, careful now. "Food?"
"Whatever's easiest," Ronan replied.
Rowena nodded fast. "Stew and bread. Water too. It's—" she hesitated, cheeks warming, "it's a good price. Two silvers for the meal."
Two silvers, Ronan repeated internally. That was cheap for frontier food served hot under a roof. Cheap enough that it was either charity or desperation.
Rowena seemed to read the thought on his face because she rushed to add, "You can pay later, if you want. When you're finished. No rush."
"No rush," Ronan echoed, tone neutral.
Rowena's horns twitched. "I mean—if you don't like it, you don't have to—" She stopped, flustered, then forced a smile that was too bright. "I'll bring it right away."
She vanished again.
Ronan's gaze drifted across the room. The inn was doing what inns did at the frontier: holding people close, feeding them just enough to keep them moving, giving them a place to be angry and alive. It felt like a dam made of wood and goodwill.
Eventually Rowena returned with a bowl of stew, a chunk of bread, and a pitcher of water. She set it down carefully, then nearly bumped her horn on the hanging ladle rack and had to duck awkwardly.
"Here!" she said, breathless. "Hot. Careful."
"Thanks," Ronan said.
Rowena smiled—quick, real—and then someone shouted her name, and she was gone again like a candle flame in wind.
Ronan took a bite.
The stew was… stew.
Edible, as Rowena had promised. Hot, filling. But the flavors collided instead of blending—too much salt, a sweetness that didn't belong, herbs used like a desperate apology, and something smoky that tasted like it came from a pot that hadn't been properly scrubbed.
It wasn't poison.
It was survival cooking in a kitchen run by one person doing ten jobs at once.
He chewed slowly, eyes narrowing, remembering the escort's comment: not much different from camping outside—only better because of a roof.
They weren't wrong.
Ronan ate anyway, because hunger didn't care about culinary critique. He drank water, listened to the room, watched Rowena work herself thin.
When the dinner rush hit, the inn turned into a battlefield without blood. Tables filled and refilled. Voices rose. A drunk sailor tried to charm the serving girl and got a sharp slap of Rowena's towel for his trouble.
"Behave," Rowena warned him, still smiling. "Or you'll drink outside."
The sailor blinked, startled, then laughed and raised his hands in surrender. "Yes, ma'am."
Ronan noted that too: she could command when she had to. It was just buried under exhaustion and a habit of apologizing.
By the time the crowd started thinning, the sky outside the windows had shifted toward dusk. The hearth threw longer shadows. The air cooled. The serving girl disappeared into the kitchen looking like she might cry from relief.
Rowena finally leaned against the counter for a breath—one hand pressed briefly to her lower back—then straightened the moment she noticed Ronan rising.
He approached, careful not to crowd.
Rowena blinked at him as if she'd forgotten he was still there. "Oh! Did you—was it okay?"
"It was food," Ronan said honestly.
Rowena's smile faltered, then she nodded like she understood exactly what that meant. "Right. Okay."
Ronan reached into his pouch and set two silvers on the counter. "For the meal."
Rowena's eyes widened. "You didn't have to pay so fast—"
"I'm paying," Ronan said, and then he pulled out the sealed letter. "And this is for you."
Rowena froze when she saw the seal.
Her fingers hovered, then took it carefully. She turned it over once, twice, reading the name on the front. Her expression changed—surprise, then warmth, then something like a small ache.
"Tessa," she whispered.
Ronan watched her shoulders loosen as she broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
Rowena read quickly—eyes darting, mouth moving silently over lines. Then she pressed the letter to her chest for a heartbeat like it was a charm all on its own.
"She wrote," Rowena said softly, almost to herself. "She actually—she's alive and she wrote."
Ronan kept his voice low. "She said you filed a request. She said you needed help."
Rowena's cheeks flushed. Her horns tilted back, self-conscious. "I didn't want to," she admitted. "I didn't want to… bother anyone. But it's been…" She swallowed. "It's been hard."
Her gaze lifted to Ronan properly for the first time since he'd entered—really looking at him now, not as another hungry traveler.
"You're…?" she began.
"Ronan Kerr," he said. "Newly blessed Innkeeper."
Rowena blinked. "Innkeeper?"
Ronan nodded once.
Her expression turned complicated—hope flickering, then fear, then suspicion, then guilt. "I—thank you," she said quickly, "but I can't really—this place is…" She gestured helplessly at the room. "It's not good. Not like… not like a real inn."
"I saw," Ronan said, calm.
Rowena flinched slightly, then forced herself to meet his eyes. "And financially…" She lowered her voice. "I don't have coin for a skilled man. Especially not someone who looks like he could charge more than this whole building is worth."
Ronan leaned his forearms lightly on the counter. "Then don't pay me now," he said.
Rowena blinked again. "What?"
"You need help," Ronan said. "You need it yesterday. If you keep running it like this alone, you'll break. And then the inn breaks. And then the village loses its roof." He let the truth sit, then continued. "Accept my help. Pay market rate later, when things improve."
Rowena's eyes widened like she thought she'd misheard.
Ronan kept going before she could retreat. "Three months," he said. "Trial. I'll work. We'll stabilize operations. We'll see if the inn can actually breathe. If after three months you still can't afford me or you decide you don't want me, I leave. Clean."
Rowena's hands twisted in her apron. Her lips parted, then closed. Her gaze darted toward the kitchen door like she could run into it and hide.
"This sounds like trouble," she whispered.
"It is trouble," Ronan agreed. "But it's trouble with a plan."
Rowena stared at him. Kind eyes. Tired eyes. A woman who'd been holding a roof up with her own spine for three years.
"I don't want to owe you," she said, voice small.
"You already owe the world," Ronan replied gently. "Owing one man for three months of work isn't the worst debt you'll carry."
Rowena's breath hitched. She looked away quickly, blinking hard as if the air had turned sharp.
Then she nodded once. Tiny. Reluctant. But real.
"Okay," Rowena said. "Three months."
Ronan's shoulders eased slightly. "Good."
Rowena let out a breath she'd been holding for far too long, then fumbled under the counter for a ring of keys. Her fingers shook from fatigue. She selected one and held it out.
"Room upstairs," she said. "End of the hall. It's… small, but clean." She hesitated, then added, voice softer, "Thank you."
Ronan took the key. "I'll start tomorrow," he said.
Rowena nodded quickly, as if starting tomorrow meant she could survive tonight.
"I need to—" she began, then someone called from the kitchen, and she jerked like she'd been struck by responsibility.
"I'll be right there!" Rowena called back, then turned and hurried toward the kitchen door.
And because the world enjoyed mocking exhausted people—
Her boot caught on the edge of a loose floorboard.
Rowena yelped, arms flailing. She went down in a graceless heap, skirt flying up as she landed with a soft thud and a mortifying squeak.
For a heartbeat, the whole room went silent.
Then, as if on cue, a few regulars snorted into their mugs, shoulders shaking. They'd seen this routine before—Rowena's notorious clumsiness was almost a feature of the place.
But today, Ronan saw more than he bargained for: as Rowena scrambled, trying to yank her skirt down and scramble upright at the same time, her horns twitching in utter mortification, he caught a full, unfiltered glimpse of her bare ass and the sweet pink between her thighs—no panties at all.
He moved instantly. Not with the urgency of a rescue, but with the calm assurance of a man who understood what dignity looked like right before it shattered. He stepped between Rowena and the nearest tables, using his body to shield her from hungry eyes, casting the room a look that dared anyone to laugh out loud.
He held out his hand, steady and wordless.
Rowena stared at it for a second, cheeks blazing, like he'd thrown her a lifeline in a storm. Then she took it, her fingers warm and trembling in his.
Ronan lifted her to her feet in one smooth pull, steadying her with a gentle touch. He didn't crack a smile, didn't make a comment, didn't even let his gaze linger—not where anyone could see.
Rowena kept her eyes glued to the floor, mortified, skirt clenched tight in her fists. But Ronan just gave her hand a brief squeeze—silent reassurance—before letting go.
She managed a tiny, grateful nod, her voice too shaky to trust just yet.
"I'm—sorry," she mumbled, voice mortified. "Floorboard—stupid—"
"I'll fix it tomorrow," Ronan said simply.
Rowena's head snapped up. "You will?"
Ronan nodded. "I will."
For a heartbeat, her expression softened into something dangerously vulnerable—relief and gratitude tangled together, like she didn't know what to do with someone quietly taking weight off her shoulders.
Then she inhaled, shoved the softness down, and slapped a smile back onto her face like armor.
"I need to… cook," she said quickly, backing toward the kitchen. "Right. Cooking. Yes."
She disappeared through the kitchen door, nearly bumping her horn on the frame on the way in.
Ronan watched the door swing shut behind her.
Then he glanced down at the loose floorboard with a faint, tired amusement.
Clumsy. Kind. Struggling.
Trouble.
Ronan turned toward the stairs and went up to his assigned room.
It was small, as Rowena had warned. A narrow bed, a washbasin, a window that rattled with sea wind. But it was clean. And the sound of the inn below—muffled voices, the hearth, the life—felt strangely comforting.
Ronan set his bag down, sat on the edge of the bed, and let his body finally admit it was tired.
Tomorrow, he'd start fixing things.
The floorboard first.
Then the rest of the mess.
And for now—just for tonight—he let the sea wind and the inn's warmth lull him into sleep.