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I'VE BEEN FED
Addam had taken to calling you "wife," and you weren't about to correct him.
You weren't married, you could never find the time, and it wasn't like anyone was raring to go crying to the sept over it. The people of Hull, at least the people you interacted with, rarely made a fuss over such improprieties, and even had the decency to throw a groat or two in your cap whenever you put out a pot of stew for the dockworkers and looked the other way whenever you would curse burning yourself on the cauldron or hock some phlegm in the dirt or take a hearty swig from your flask. Some of the men told you they had never had fish stew that tasted quite like yours did, and you weren't about to tell them your recipe, so your infractions seemed small in the face of loosing out on the way the fish meat would fall apart in your mouth or how the potatoes were always soft but never mushy.
It had only taken Addam one trip to your little makeshift stand for him to start pining after you, gifting you that flask that you now took everywhere. It was made of sturdy leather, with a small seahorse painted somewhat poorly on one side, and it was given to you already filled with spiced rum. You had made sure Addam's portion had extra meat in it that day. The way his face broke into the biggest grin you'd ever seen told you everything you needed to know.
So yes, you weren't married, but he still called you "wife" and gifted you small trinkets and spent meals at your shack and kissed you when he saw you in the morning, as well as other things that were frankly nobody else's business.
Addam had set out early in the morning, just before the sun rose, with his sieve and other tools to go clam digging. You liked that he worked with his hands, and told him as much when he brought up how soft a lord's hands might be and how much nicer they might feel against your skin. You shoved your calloused palms into his, ending the conversation. He let you sleep in, careful to tiptoe around your living space as he collected his wares. He liked the way your kitchen always smelled like the spices he pinched from his brother's trading cog, and how you placed the small curios he gave you around the windows where you could look at them. He had heard of Lord Corlys Velaryon's Hall of Nine, displaying the treasures from his nine voyages, and thought it couldn't be better than the treasures you kept in your windowsill.
There was a chill in the air, a breeze that made Addam pull his tunic tighter around himself. He recalled how the blanket you used was starting to wear thin, and how the sea breeze would wake you soon without him there to keep you warm. The docks of the port town were already filled with men, loading and unloading boxes, taking inventory, haggling prices with the local merchants, the general bustle of seafarers and sailers. Cod and herring were the main catches coming off the fishing boats, and he knew you would stop by later to pick up some to take home.
The beaches were comparatively quiet, with only a few other men digging around for clams. Poking around, he found a few small depressions in the sand, before settling in and getting to work.
The sun was over the horizon by the time you had made your way down to the beach, slightly stale bread in one hand and basket in the other. Addam stuck out a hand to wave you down, and before you had the chance to say anything, he dropped a pale pink shell into your basket. You fished it out, dropping down to sit beside him as you thumbed over the ridges of the body and poked at the spire. You held it up to the rising sun to see the way the colors changed, before pocketing it.
You cut a piece of bread from the loaf, handing it to him. It would be no use in warning him of its staleness, he wasn't like to complain. He took the piece gratefully, as if it was baked by the cooks in High Tide itself, although you could see the effort he had to put in to ripping off a piece in his mouth. You took your thumb and brushed away the crumbs that stuck to his cheeks. His is a handsome face, you thought, one you wouldn't mind letting people think was your husband's. The chill stung at your skin, and you pulled your knit cape close around your shoulders.
Standing up, you shook the sand from your boots and patted down your skirts. You took a swig from your flask, letting the rum warm your chest. Leaning down, you pressed a kiss to your husband's forehead, and he leaned up to press his own to his wife's cheek. While he felt a pang in his chest as you picked up your things and headed into town, he couldn't deny the contentment in watching you. In those moments he felt like he understood the stories of sailors crashing their ships at the sight of beautiful women-beasts, although none of the sailors could ever hope to know the warmth of their hearth or the grit of their sharp tongue, and none could call a beast "wife," so what could the stories know of ship-wrecking love, anyways.