The first time you'd seen him washed up on your shore, you were stunned both by his appearance and the realization that another person had reached your small island. You'd been alone for as long as you could recall, starved of affection and the warmth of another. You'd crouched by him and poked him with a stick, keeping your distance. He was clothed despite the heat in far more cloth than you've ever cared to wear yourself.

It looked uncomfortable, sticking to his skin soaked from the ocean water. You inched closer, wondering if he was dead or not. You'd lean over his hair hanging over your bare chest. You poked his cheek with your finger, head tilted to the side. His chest rose and fell, so he had to be alive.

By the time he'd come to, you'd tended to his wounds and remained sitting near him staring out in the waters. Perhaps this was a gift of fate? You perched on a rock and nearly fell back into the water when he first spoke, accusing and unsure.

He'd stared at you for some time when you turned to him. His eyes caught on your body, something you thought nothing of at the time. Why would you? You've never had anybody around before him. You'd let him explain his story, how he was wrongfully chased from his home, how much he'd suffered... Each word is a beautifully strewn story.

One that you wholeheartedly believed. You told him yours, how you were abandoned here, raised through luck and survival, how he's the first living being you've ever talked to.

He'd licked his lips and extended a hand, called himself a gentleman, that he'd keep you company. At first you had tried to help him figure out how far from his home he was, but slowly he seemed content to stay. The days were usually never cold on your island and yet he continued to wear what he called a tunic, but never slighted you for your lack of one. He said you were beautiful as you were and had no reason to hide behind cloth.

One day, you found him laying on your bed. Telling you to approach with a sultry tone, one that you continue to listen to.