The starter crate arrived with the tide wind.
Two boys wheeled the handbarrow into the inn's back alley, eyes wide at the sacks and sealed jars like they were hauling treasure. Marla Quill's neat labels sat on the dry goods. Old Jory's fish lay packed in saltweed and damp cloth, fresh enough that the sea still seemed to cling to them.
Rowena met Ronan at the backdoor, hands pressed to her apron like she was afraid the supplies would vanish if she blinked.
"You— you actually got all this?" she breathed.
"I got a starter crate," Ronan corrected, already lifting sacks with practiced ease. "Not a miracle."
Rowena hovered, half-helpful, half-in-the-way. "I can carry—"
"Front of house," Ronan reminded, without looking up.
Rowena's horns twitched. "But it's just sacks—"
Ronan finally met her eyes. His tone stayed calm, but it left no room to argue. "If you carry sacks, you'll end up cooking again. If you cook again, we go back to chaos."
Rowena's mouth tightened like she wanted to snap—then she exhaled and stepped aside, cheeks warm with stubborn humiliation.
"Fine," she muttered. "I'll be charming."
"That's your strongest weapon," Ronan said, and walked into the kitchen with the first load.
He didn't "reorganize."
He dismantled the kitchen like a raid captain dismantling a bad plan.
The first day of the fix started with stations.
He dragged the prep table away from the damp wall and set it under better light. He cleared one shelf and declared it dry goods only, then made Rowena's serving girl—Miri, fourteen and terrified—label jars in charcoal because anyone could follow words if the words were big enough.
"Salt," he said, tapping a jar. "Not 'white powder.'"
Miri nodded so fast her braid bounced. "Yes, sir."
Ronan made a clean line between raw and cooked. Fish and meat on one side, vegetables and bread on the other. Knives had a place. Cutting boards had a place. Wash basin had a place.
The biggest change was a simple wooden plank he wedged between two counters, creating a narrow "pass" window between kitchen and dining room.
"Orders come in here," Ronan told Rowena when she peeked in. "Plates go out here. No more wandering into the kitchen with questions while a pot's boiling over."
Rowena stared at the plank like it had insulted her personally. "I… wander?"
"You move like a woman trying to be everywhere at once," Ronan said. "It's impressive. It's also why everything burns."
Rowena opened her mouth, then shut it again, defeated by truth.
Ronan put a pot on the hearth and started a basic stock—bones from yesterday's scraps, Jory's fish heads and small off-cuts, a few onions and carrots, bay leaf, salt. Nothing fancy. Just a base that tasted like intention instead of panic.
The Innkeeper blessing made it easier. It tugged at ingredients that were wrong—slightly sour, too old, contaminated—and guided his hands away from waste. It also did something stranger: it made the kitchen feel like it wanted to be orderly, like the building itself relaxed when he put things where they belonged.
By midmorning he'd cut the menu down to two dishes and didn't apologize for it.
Rowena stared at the chalkboard he'd rewritten.
Only two lines.
GULLWATCH CHOWDER — fish stock, potatoes, herbs, breadSKILLET HASH — eggs, onions, salted pork, fried bread
"That's… it?" Rowena whispered.
"That's it," Ronan said. "Two signatures. We do them well. We do them consistent."
Rowena's shoulders hunched defensively. "People will complain."
"Let them," Ronan replied. "Complaints are noise. Empty bowls are proof."
Rowena looked like she wanted to argue. She didn't. She just pressed a hand to her chest as if trying to calm her own heartbeat.
Then she slipped back to the dining room, because that was her station now.
And Ronan went to war with the kitchen.
It was a montage of small battles.
He taught Miri call-outs—loud, clear, no whispering.
"Two chowder, one hash!"
Ronan answered without turning. "Heard."
He taught her to pre-warm bowls near the hearth so chowder didn't arrive lukewarm. He taught her to wipe rims before sending plates out. Clean edges mattered more than fancy garnish.
He controlled portions like a commander controlling rations.
One ladle. Two ladles. Bread cut in consistent thickness. Eggs counted.
Rowena tried to hover anyway.
She appeared at the pass window with a worried crease between her brows. "Do you need—"
"No," Ronan said, stirring stock. "Go smile at the table of fishermen. They're deciding whether to come back tomorrow."
Rowena's horns dipped. "I can smile and carry—"
"Rowena," Ronan said, and his tone made her stop. Not harsh. Just… steady. A boundary.
She bit her lip, then forced herself away.
But her discomfort didn't fade.
It grew.
By noon, the inn's rhythm had shifted. Not smooth, not perfect—still a frontier rush with clumsy furniture and cold drafts—but the food came out the same every time. The kitchen didn't feel like it was on fire. Miri didn't look like she was about to cry.
Rowena, meanwhile, looked increasingly lost.
She did her job—she did—welcomed guests, kept laughter up, teased sailors into paying full price, soothed a traveler with a twisted ankle while Ronan boiled water for clean cloth.
But every time she glanced toward the kitchen, her hands twitched like she wanted to grab a ladle just to feel useful.
Eventually, she snapped.
Ronan was plating chowder when she burst through the kitchen door carrying a pitcher.
"I'm helping," she announced, as if declaring war.
Ronan's eyes flicked to the pitcher. "What is that?"
"Water," Rowena said quickly. "Clean— I boiled it like you said. For the staff. So you don't—" Her voice faltered under his stare. "So you don't… forget."
"I don't forget to drink," Ronan said.
Rowena bristled. "Well, you look like you would."
Miri froze mid-motion, eyes wide, like she'd just witnessed the inn's owner pick a fight with a wolf.
Ronan set the bowl down gently. "Rowena. Pass window."
"I know where the pass window is," Rowena snapped, stepping forward anyway.
And because the world had decided Rowena's pride would always be punished by gravity—
Her foot hit a damp patch.
A slick smear of water near the wash basin that hadn't been fully dried.
Rowena's boot skidded.
She made a strangled sound—half gasp, half curse—and went down hard.
The pitcher flew from her hands in an arc of glittering droplets.
Water splashed across her front.
Across her shirt.
For one stunned heartbeat, the kitchen went completely silent.
Rowena lay sprawled on the floor, soaked through, hair fanned out beneath her like a dark halo, her horns twitching in slow, horrified little jerks. The white linen shirt she wore had betrayed her instantly—plastered to her skin, thin fabric turned nearly transparent by water.
Every curve of her chest was on display.
The top buttons had popped open in the fall, the gap yawning wide to reveal deep, flushed cleavage. Her breasts pressed forward under the clinging cloth, heavy and unmistakable, and in the chill air her nipples had gone rigid—dark, sharp points clearly visible through the wet linen, impossible to miss.
Miri's eyes went enormous.
Then she snapped her gaze away so violently she nearly twisted her neck, cheeks burning as she stared very intently at the ceiling beams.
Rowena realized it at the exact same moment.
Her gaze dropped. She saw the soaked shirt, the open buttons, the way the fabric outlined everything she definitely hadn't meant to show.
Her face went scarlet in an instant, heat rushing up her neck and into the tips of her ears as a strangled, mortified sound caught in her throat.
She scrambled upright, arms crossing over herself too late, breath coming in sharp, mortified bursts. "I— I—" She looked like she might combust on the spot. "It— the floor—"
Ronan moved fast.
Not in a flustered way.
In a controlled way.
He stepped between Rowena and Miri's line of sight and grabbed a clean towel from the hook. He held it up like a shield, eyes steady, voice low and practical.
"Wrap," he said.
Rowena snatched the towel like it was a lifeline and pressed it tight to her chest, trembling with humiliation. Her horns flattened back.
"I didn't—" she choked out. "I didn't mean—"
"I know," Ronan said.
He crouched, wiped up the spill with another cloth, then stood again—still blocking, still calm, as if the kitchen was simply dealing with an accident, not a sudden, unfair intimacy.
Miri hovered by the prep table, cheeks burning, staring at a bowl like it contained the meaning of life.
Rowena's voice came small. "I'm useless."
Ronan's gaze sharpened. "No."
Rowena blinked, lashes wet. "I can't even bring water without falling and—" her voice broke, "—making everything worse."
Ronan kept his tone steady, like he was speaking to a raid member mid-panic. "You're not useless," he said. "You're misassigned."
Rowena's brows knit, confused. "What?"
Ronan gestured toward the dining room beyond the door. "Your strength is out there. People. Mood. Comfort. You can make a man with empty pockets feel welcome enough to spend his last copper. You can calm drunks before they turn into fights. You can make this place feel like shelter."
Rowena swallowed hard, towel still clutched to her chest. "But you're doing… everything."
"I'm doing kitchen," Ronan corrected. "That's one job. Just like you."
Rowena's mouth trembled. "I don't feel like it's enough."
Ronan's voice softened slightly—still firm, but warmer. "It is. You've been carrying six jobs alone for three years. Your body learned that suffering equals usefulness. That's a lie."
Rowena stared at him, breathing shaky.
Ronan stepped closer, careful not to crowd her. "Partnership isn't both people doing everything," he said. "It's both people doing what they're best at, without letting pride ruin the system."
Rowena's horns twitched. "System," she whispered, like it was a foreign word.
Ronan nodded once. "Yes."
Rowena's eyes dropped. She looked devastated—and then, slowly, like someone letting go of a burden she'd been gripping so hard it had left bruises.
"…Okay," she whispered.
Ronan exhaled. "Good."
He looked at Miri. "Go. Plates."
Miri practically teleported out of the kitchen, grateful for an excuse to not exist in the awkwardness.
Rowena shifted, towel tight. "I need to… change."
Ronan nodded toward the backstairs. "Upstairs. Ten minutes. Then front of house."
Rowena hesitated, then gave him a small, embarrassed nod and hurried out, soaked shirt pressed under the towel like a guilty secret.
When she was gone, Ronan stared at the damp patch on the floor.
He didn't look flustered.
But his jaw was tight.
Not because of what he'd seen.
Because of what he'd realized.
Rowena wasn't just clumsy.
She was desperate to prove she was worth keeping.
And that desperation was as dangerous as any monster.
By late afternoon, the rhythm settled.
Rowena returned in a dry shirt and a braid hastily redone, cheeks still pink whenever she glanced at Ronan. But she stayed out of the kitchen. She worked the room instead—smiling, joking, listening, making people feel seen.
Ronan handled the kitchen with Miri as runner.
Two dishes. Same taste. Same plating.
When someone complained about "lack of options," Rowena laughed lightly and said, "Options are for cities. Here, we serve what keeps you standing."
And somehow, the patrons nodded like that was wisdom.
A fisherman finished his chowder and said, "Best I've had since Greyhaven."
Ronan didn't smile. He just kept stirring stock.
But the inn felt different.
Like it had stopped bracing for collapse.
Like it had started… breathing.
That night, when the last bowl was washed and the hearth banked, Ronan went to the pantry to count inventory.
He didn't trust numbers he hadn't personally verified.
He counted sacks.
Flour. Beans. Salt. Spices. Oil.
Then he frowned.
The counts didn't match what he'd carried in.
Not by a little. By enough to matter.
Ronan's eyes narrowed.
He crouched near the back shelf where the wood met stone. His Innkeeper sense tugged—not at spoilage, but at something wrong in the structure. A faint draft where there shouldn't be one.
He pressed his palm to the wall.
Wood that sounded… hollow.
Ronan shifted a crate, then another, exposing a seam in the floorboards—old, carefully cut, hidden under years of grime and stacked supplies.
A trapdoor.
His fingers traced the edge. The latch was worn smooth, used often.
Someone had been opening this.
Skimming from storage.
Stealing food.
Ronan lifted the trapdoor slowly.
Cold air breathed up from below, carrying the smell of damp earth and old salt.
In the darkness beneath, he saw the outline of a narrow cellar nook—too tight to be a proper cellar, more like a smuggler's pocket—lined with empty sacks and a few scattered fish bones.
Evidence.
Recent.
Ronan's jaw set.
He eased the trapdoor closed again, moved the crates back exactly as they were, and stood in the dim pantry with the sea wind rattling the walls.
The Winking Widow wasn't only being squeezed by debt.
It was being eaten from the inside.
And Ronan had just found the mouth.