Page 13 of Hook, Line, and Tentacle

“You said…” My voice catches, and I stroke my fingers absently over the tentacle curled around my thigh, grounding myself.

“You said you’d do this all again. If it meant finding me.

So… do you real ly feel that way? Like maybe, if it had been a choice—maybe you’d have chosen this, if it meant you’d find your way to me? ”

He stares at me. The moment stretches, too long, too quiet. It rings in my ears like a scream.

My cheeks flame. “Oh my God, that was so stupid.” I groan, pulling the blanket over my head, instantly mortified.

“That was super out of pocket, forget I said anything. You don’t even know me, and I just asked if you’d voluntarily get turned into a tentacle man against your will for the sake of a mediocre fuck—”

He rips the blanket off my head and cuts me off with a kiss so sudden and fierce I gasp against it. All his tentacles tighten, pulse, wrap around me in a wave of heat and desperation. His voice is a growl against my lips. “Don’t you dare say that. Not to me. Not ever .”

I blink up at him, breath caught halfway in my throat. “Okay,” I whisper.

His hand cups my cheek. “You’re perfect. And yes, I would. I’d choose any and every awful thing that’s ever happened to me. Again and again. Because it led me to you.” His voice dips into a rasp, raw and ringing with a truth so absolute I feel it in my bones when he says, “I love you.”

The words slam into me like a wave, cold and bracing and electric, and my mouth falls open.

“It’s been less than two weeks,” I say, a little stunned.

Cal swallows hard, clearly sticking with what he said, but his eyes have widened, like the confession surprised him too, at least a little. “Yes.”

I stare at him for a beat longer, then lean up and kiss him. “I love you too.”

He groans against my mouth, kissing me deeper, hungrier. “Again. Please.”

I kiss him again, smiling as I speak against the taste of him. “I love you, Cal. I love you.” I pull back just enough to grin. “You’re my favorite tentacle man.”

He exhales a laugh, low and rough.

“And wielder of my favorite tentacock,” I add solemnly.

That earns me a bemused grumble and a roll of his eyes before he flips me under him, teeth grazing my throat as his tentacles slide possessively around my waist. “You’re not getting away with that one, love.”

I bite back a giggle, gazing up at him with stars in my chest, and he leans down to kiss me again, lazy and open-mouthed. I drag my fingers down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tighten under my touch, and trace the edge of his nipple with a light flick of my thumb.

He groans softly, hips twitching. I grin into the kiss and do it again, slower this time, then nick his bottom lip with my teeth.

“You like that?” I murmur. “Sensitive there?”

His answer is a growl against my mouth, deep and low, his cock already hardening against my thigh as I reach between us to palm him through his jeans.

I tease at the button, flicking it open, easing the zipper down.

One hand strokes him through the fabric of his boxers, the other slips down to cup his balls, rolling them gently.

His breathing hitches—sharp and sudden—and I look up to see his eyes dark, pupils blown wide.

Making him lose himself this way has become my favorite thing.

His tentacles move all over me, like they have countless times in the last week, but then something shifts. One coils too fast around my waist, not rough or callous, but too tight, and sudden enough that it pinches my ribs a little wrong.

It doesn’t actually hurt —but it yanks a startled gasp from my throat, and it’s not one of pleasure. “Cal—please. That—” My voice is thin, breathless. “ Stop .”

It’s like throwing a switch.

Every tentacle vanishes at once—snapping back with such violent speed it’s like he’s been shocked. His body jerks away from mine, bolting upright off the sofa. He stumbles backward, trembling, his hands held up in supplication, eyes wide with horror.

The silence that follows rings in my ears, utterly devastating.

“Cal, look at me.” I sit up fast, chest heaving. “It’s okay, you didn’t hurt me, I promise, baby, you just—you startled me, that’s all.”

He flinches when the word “baby” leaves my mouth, but he won’t look at me .

He’s already retreating, disappearing into himself, shaking his head as if to block the sound of my voice. A quiet, desperate noise escapes him—somewhere between a whimper and a sob—and he presses a hand to his mouth, staggering a step further back.

The absence of his touch is sudden and sharp. It’s painful in a way I didn’t expect and don’t know how to reconcile. My body aches where he was just moments ago, where his presence filled every space around me, and now it’s just… gone.

“I’m okay,” I say again, more urgently. “You didn’t hurt me, I swear. I just needed you to stop. That’s all. And you did. Okay?”

He’s not listening to me. His eyes are glassy, and the edges of his form blur with motion like he’s vibrating with a restless kind of energy—like his body itself is trying to escape, trying to unmake itself so it doesn’t have to bear the weight of this moment.

I see it before it happens—the way he folds in, like something coming untethered. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

He stammers something, voice raw and too quiet to make out at first. His lips barely move. “I didn’t—” He swallows, trembling. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” I say quickly, lifting a hand toward him even though he’s already out of reach. “It’s alright, Cal. You didn’t hurt me, you just—”

He cuts me off with a strangled, dismissive noise, backing away another step, and shakes his head. “I have to go,” he breathes. “I—God, I told myself. I knew this was a mistake.”

The words hit me like a strike, and I flinch. “No. Please , don’t— Cal , please—”

“I have to,” he says again, firmer this time. He won’t even look at me. He’s already halfway turned, like he can’t bear to be here another second, like being near me is agony now.

But being apart from him is agony for me.

“Cal!” I try again, my voice cracking, but he doesn’t stop, even as I watch the sound of his name inside of my sob lash him like a whip.

I slap a hand over my mouth, breath catching in my throat as I watch him.

His shoulders are hunched like he’s trying to curl in on himself, to shrink down and disappear, but part of him lingers as he steps out the door .

A tentacle trailing behind him. It doesn’t reach for me exactly, but it hovers.

Hesitates. Like it’s waiting, aching for me still, the same way I ache for him.

Like it doesn’t understand why I’m not still wrapped up in him.

The soft curl of it seems confused, pulled toward me by some invisible tether that hasn’t been severed yet.

Then it folds in on itself, slow and reluctant, disappearing along with him.

He’s gone, and I’m alone.