He tugs the sails tighter, eyes turning back to the horizon. “You know what? I don’t even know why I asked.” His gaze flicks back to me. “You’re absolutely batshit crazy.”
I grin, letting the rope slip from my hands, watching it hit the deck with a satisfying thud. “Glad we’ve established that. Now, what is it youreallywant to know?“ I plant my hands on my hips, ready for whatever question he’s about to toss my way.
He hesitates, and for a brief, rare moment, the playful banter slips away. Something heavier—more real—settles between us. His eyes flick to the hatch below deck, and he licks his lips, like he’s wrestling with words he doesn’t want to say.
“Me and Gypsy...” he begins, then stops, his expression tightening, like he can’t believe he’s actually admitting this. “No matter what I say, I seem to piss her off. And you…” He points accusingly at my songbook. “You make her laugh. A lot.”
I blink, pleasantly surprised. “Make her laugh, you say?”
He nods, his face dead serious. “How do you do it? That little notebook of yours, it’s like you write about one woman after another, and it all seems so... easy.”
My heart swells. He read my poems? Felt the love I poured into each line? Oh, perhaps Mr. Zayan isn’t as emotionally fragile as I first thought.
“Most of themwerethe loves of my life,“ I admit with a wistful smile, a touch of theatricality in my tone.
“Wait, you mean more than one?”
“Yes, every one of them made me feel like I was living a whole new life.”
He scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Of course you’d say something ridiculous like that. I don’t know why I bother.”
I chuckle, picking up the rope again, casually weaving the pattern in the tar. “You bother because you’re in love, Mr. Zayan,” I say smoothly. “And love, my friend, is something I know very well.”
He falls silent, watching as I trace the design on the sail. The sea dragon comes to life under my hands, its form swirling and fluid.
Finally, Zayan speaks again. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the secret?”
“To women?”
He nods. I pause, letting the moment hang in the salty air. The tar-laden rope hovers just above the sail as I contemplate.
“Every woman,” I say slowly, “is like a song. A unique melody, a rhythm you must learn to dance to. I try to see that hidden beauty within them and capture it in my words. And if I’m lucky, I get to share that with them.”
Zayan raises a skeptical brow. “And that works? You just… write songs and they fall for you?”
I shake my head, chuckling softly. “It’s not about making them fall for me. It’s about seeing them. Trulyseeingthem. Women, like men, want to feel understood, appreciated. If you can make someone feel special, you’re already halfway there.”
He rubs the back of his neck, exhaling deeply. “And Gypsy? How do I makeherfeel seen?”
Now that’s a tougher one. Miss Captain isn’t your typical muse. She’s not one of those lovely flowers I’ve penned songsabout, full of sweetness and charm. No, she’s more like the storm that inspires a masterpiece—fierce, untamed, and not easily impressed. But even storms want to be understood, right? You just have to see the woman behind the captain.
Mr. Zayan is doing fine for the most part. He listens, respects her strength, he cares for her. All internally. Outside he’s a condescending bastard.
How do I say it so I don’t make him stab me in the heart though?
“Just be honest with her,” I say with a casual shrug. “Tell her what you feel. Listen when she speaks. Be genuine. The rest will follow.”
He nods, slowly soaking in my words. “Alright,” he mutters. Then, a smile creeps onto his face. But it halts halfway. “But if it doesn’t work, I’m blaming you.”
Is that a threat? Oh, it’s definitely a threat. I feel a twinge of anxiety, but, as usual, the words flow before I can stop them.
I told the green-eyed man what he wanted to know,
Shared with him secrets of love’s soft flow,
He nodded, as if my wisdom was gold,
But why do I fear my advice might grow cold?
