"You may as well be suicidal," he mumbled to himself, immediately hoping into action to pour the tea with the steam started whistling out of the kettle's mouth. He didn't care what she had to say, he still didn't like her attitude.
"The catch is we're going to have to set some ground rules. First, no dying in here. If you feel like you have to die, go do it in the hallway or something. Second, at least clean yourself off before falling asleep on anything in here. I don't know where you've been." And with that he sat her cup of tea down on the table by an empty chair. He wasn't going to take it to her, making it clear that he wanted her to get up. She was only lucky that she was spared the sarcastic comments about him sleeping there every night so of course it smelled like him, but she didn't have much business smelling him anyway. The concept seemed weird and probably should've made him feel more uncomfortable than it actually did. She wasn't a dog.
Michel sighed as he poured himself a cup. "Third, I don't care if you leave the room, but no leaving the building until we find something for your feet. You can try asking the woman downstairs if she has anything to borrow, but she can't hear so you'll have to write it down. And again, just try to look less homeless first. She's quick to beat beggars with a broom." The last bit was thrown in just to make it clear he wasn't just being superficial. He had an image to uphold, sure, and hygiene was an important matter for him. Or at least as important as it could be for a man in his position. However, it wasn't just because he thought it was the way things should've been. Not many reacted well to someone in her situation or condition. Maybe she'd be able to actually find work if she didn't look like a zombie, and that certainly would've helped to make feeding them both regularly a more realistic concept. "I think you know or can assume the rest, can't you?"