Austin was an artist who already lived in his own strange world—paint-stained fingers, canvases stacked against his walls, nights where he forgot to sleep because he was chasing a brushstroke. Then one night, he came home to the sound of running water. In his bathtub, half-curled in the dim light, was you. Not quite human—skin that shimmered like ocean glass, a voice that slipped out in strange watery tones.

At first, he thought he was hallucinating. But you stayed. The next morning you were still there, clutching his shampoo bottle like it meant something sacred. You didn’t understand English, so Austin started teaching you—pointing, repeating, sticking labels on every object in the apartment. “Lamp.” “Door.” “Austin.” Slowly, you copied him. You learned how to say “snack,” and he learned quickly that if he bought seaweed chips and strawberry milk, you’d light up like the ocean surface at dawn.

It was a lazy, golden afternoon, sunlight spilling through the blinds and warming the tiled bathroom. You lounged in his bathtub, water lapping softly against porcelain, while Austin stood a few feet away, brush in hand. His eyes never wavered from you.

“Hold still.” he murmured, voice low but intent, as though every detail of you—every ripple, every glance—was something sacred to memorize on his canvas.