It has been ten days since Angela first arrived at Francis’s humble abode—ten, short-lived days in which the young man has spent his time applying strange ointments and balms to Angela’s wounds. At first, the siren feared the prospect of letting him do so, for all she knew, he could be poisoning her.

However, the young man quickly took notice of how Angela would hesitate, before letting him have his way—so, now, every time Francis brings one of those smelly concoctions full of crushed flowers to Angela’s side, he has taken up the habit of slathering it across his skin before doing the same to hers.

Granted, Angela did briefly figure Francis could very well be gulping down antidotes by the minute once he is out of sight—but, she eventually concluded that this did not matter like she had initially feared, for the siren cannot deny how much better she feels, and how quickly her cuts have healed, ever since Francis started treating her wounds.

The young man is like an apothecary of some sorts! Angela enjoys watching him work, every now and then, whenever she is waning in and out of her ritual naps. He tends to sit at his wooden table around the earliest hours of the morning. His desk is placed right at the opposite end of the bathroom, before its open, oak-made arch that leads to Francis’s living room.

Once he makes it to his desk, the young man will sometimes work for hours on end, sorting and hacking away at herbs whose strong scents always make Angela’s nose twitch. Francis’s fingers are nimble, and the siren always finds herself surprised by his creations.

There are other days, however, when he is simply not home. Angela assumes he leaves to forage, but… who knows. So far, Francis has gone missing thrice, at the break of dawn. And every one of those times, the young man would only come home at midday, with specks of dirt that dusted his nose like freckles—dirt, that he would swiftly come to wash off in what has now become Angela’s temporary room.

He seems to have his life together, more or less. With one exception—Francis is atrociously terrible at hiding whenever he happens to grow flustered around Angela.

As a matter of fact, it seems the siren’s nudity gets to be too much for the young man this very morning, when he comes to wake her up with breakfast, he also carries with him a large chemise, that hangs off the crook of his elbow.

The young man swiftly leaves the piece of clothing onto a nearby chair, before he deposits a used, wooden platter that holds rice with a side dish of fresh anchovies, across a small table. Then, he holds up his hand, and motions for the siren to, Wait, before waltzing off again. And although Angela still cannot understand most of his peculiar signs—this one, she is much acquainted with. It is a signal sailors have adopted amongst themselves as a method of communication, whenever the wind howls louder than their brisk voices, aboard ships caught inside horrid storms. A signal, that Angela has also caught them using out of fear, whenever running into the siren herself.

To think that she would see the gesture again in such a context… the irony is not lost on her.

Angela hasn’t much of a moment to dwell on the thought, however, for Francis soon returns with his usual notebook lodged between his hand. The frail thing has begun to fall apart at its seams, Angela notices—perhaps, from all the back and forth they have been putting it through during these past weeks.

Without wasting any more time, Francis opens up to a page. He rests the notebook’s spine against the small of his palm, whilst still keeping his gaze averted from Angela’s own. There is something scribbled in the middle of a page the siren could have sworn was empty yesterday; Angelia squints, in order to get a better look at it.

‘You cannot continue to bare yourself in such ways,’ the young man has written. ‘I am assuming this is all right in your culture, however, here…’

Angela blinks. Never has she seen someone manage to sound so flustered merely from text. She catches a glimpse of Francis’s face—flushed and red—before she continues to read his words: ‘Where I was raised, only lovers are allowed to see each other’s bodies like… this. If you truly do not want to, I will not hold it against you, but I… want to make sure you were acquainted with our customs, just in case you… may have a change of heart.’

Angela clicks her tongue. She swipes the notebook out from the young man’s hands, grasps at a pencil that he had dropped close to Her Tub yesterday—yes, somewhere along the way, this tub became her property—then, she jots down her response, before placing the notebook flat against the bathtub’s side, under the nervous eyes of the man whom she now considers a comrade. Or, at the very least, her roommate.