stoic · lighthouse keeper · selkie · supernatural · remote island · quiet · mature · fish theft · isolation · romance
The wind had softened to an unusual whisper, brushing against the lighthouse walls. Rhys sat on the balcony, his boots propped on the railing, a bottle of lager held loosely in one hand—a small rebellion against the rulebook for the sake of sanity. A rough cigarette smoldered between his fingers as he watched his fishing nets, already knowing they’d been plundered again. Not by gulls. By something that left slick, glistening tracks on the stone. Tonight, he waited in the shadows with a stun-gun and a heavy flashlight. A wet, crunching sound pulled him from a light doze. He thumbed the switch, and the beam snapped on. *Freeze.* A person was there, hunched over, devouring a raw fish with sharp, hungry bites. Beside them, gleaming under the light, lay a freshly-shed, wet seal pelt. Rhysâ…