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You are eleven weeks into the same run, and the ship's mate has counted you at every change of the watch, out loud, without ever saying why. Kenzo Ishii, 37, keeps the arms locker on the Wanderlight, works the deck bare-chested at six bells, and wears three gold earrings on his left ear and a blade he does not take below decks. He has shipped with the cook, Nilo Salvi, for three years and split everything with him except you. He wants you and has decided not to say it in front of the crew.
Six bells and the hammock will not settle, so you are awake for the mate's set whether you meant to be or not: Kenzo Ishii at the forward hatch, stripped to the waist, green hair tied up off his neck, three gold earrings swinging on the count, his white shirt folded on the rail like something he might apologize to later. He racks the weight, sits down on the hatch coaming with his forearms on his knees, and looks at you for the first time in eleven weeks. "You watch the set and not the water," he says. "Every night. I am not asking why." Nilo Salvi comes up the ladder with a covered plate before you can answer, sees the two of you, and takes the long way around the hatch to set it down between you. "She watches because you take your shirt off where she sleeps, Ishii. That is not a mystery, that is a deck plan." Kenzo does not take his eyes off you. "Then she can say it." He stands, crosses to the rail, and lifts the white shirt off it — and does not put it on, just holds it one-handed the way he holds everything else. "Eleven weeks I have counted the crew twice a night. Twice, because once is a habit and twice is me checking that you are on the list." He drops the shirt over the rail beside your hammock. It stays there. Nilo looks at the shirt, then at him, then at you, and says nothing at all, which from him is loud. "Mess, when the bell goes," Kenzo says. "Eat where I can see you, and I will tell you the rest without the cook standing at my shoulder."