‘I can tell that the sight of my breasts have been causing you great discomfort. Since I am, for the most part, currently living on your grounds, then, I will obey your rules. Tell me, what must I do human, to make the blush in your cheeks disappear?’

Somehow, Angela’s message only causes the flush to deepen across Francis’s face.

With a swift motion, the young man snatches the pen away from her fingers. He scribbles—furiously—within the notebook.

Angela first assumes that when she will get it back, it will be filled with odd excuses, accusations that will put the blame on her. Yet, the siren finds herself pleasantly surprised, at the writings that soon  lay before her eyes.

‘Forgive me,’ Francis tells her. ‘I am doing my best not to stare, but, I admit it is difficult—and I know that this is no good. If I have made you uncomfortable, going forth, I could attend to your wounds blindfolded! I promise, I will do my best to resolve this. You are… one of the most beautiful people I have ever crossed paths with. Forgive me—oh, forgive me; I deserve nothing more than to be beaten with sticks that would gouge out my gaze, for having been so disrespectful to you, my lady.’

There is a brief moment of silence in which neither of them speak. My lady… that is, certainly new, Angela thinks to herself, with a small frown woven into her features. Her eyebrow twitches. What a strange little human man, she sighs. This is by far the first time someone of his kin has complimented her, especially after seeing her features properly, under board daylight.

And there it is, returning again—that peculiar mating scent, which tends to override any smell. Even ones as strong as the lavender hung against the walls, or of the old tomes that surround them both. As Francis squirms against the worn, wooden stool he sits atop beside Angela’s bathtub, he rests both his fists across his lap. He gulps.

The young man stares at the bathroom’s old tiles with intent, before he rises then turns, to grab the large, pearl silken shirt that had been draped across the bathroom’s spare chair like a dead man. There is a screech, once he accidentally knocks into the chair’s used but solid legs, and Angela finds herself cringing at the sound. She curses, in siren-tongue—when she blinks again, Francis is holding out the chemise for her to take in his usual, modest silence.

He has averted his gaze from Angela’s own, and Angela imagines the young man would already be a stuttering mess, should he have been the type to speak aloud.

Now, the siren stares at the foreign garb with great intent; she wonders why Francis owns this—it does not seem like this style. As she coddles the soft fabric between her fingers, the siren makes sure to avoid tearing it with her claws, before she lifts it into the air, over her head. The last time Angela remembers wearing one of these, was decades ago. She had stolen a piece of clothing from a woman she’d just eaten in order to mock the poor girl before her fiancé, who watched with terror as Angela ripped her to shreds. Back then, the siren was but a mere teenager—how she has grown since then.

Truly, she regrets being so cruel her food. It would not have hurt her to learn the meaning of respect a tad sooner. But! In either case, she remains baffled and quite curious, as to why Francis has taken such an interest in her. If she wanted to, she could make a meal out of him in no time. Does this not terrify him?

Does he not fear for his life?

Surely, he has caught wind of her past exploits—this island isn’t that big. Humans like to talk.

There’s no way he doesn’t know.

However, eventually, Angela huffs: if she will ever get an answer to these burning questions, it certainly will not happen now. So, she forgets the memory of the deceased woman as quickly as it came, then slips into the shirt, with her shoulders hanging low in a defeated slump. The attire fits her quite well, yet, it also does not. And it seems Francis has realized this, too, for his eyes have travelled to where Angela’s nipples perk up from beneath the gentle fabric.