Under The Umbrella
Author: God's Princess
Eight: Egg Sauce & Truth
---
11:47am. Dr. Iro’s voice was white noise over pharmacology slides and beta blockers, but Josie only stared at one line in her notebook: _“I’m not his project.”_
Her chest didn’t hurt for the first time in months, and that absence of pain was louder than any lecture.
4:08pm yesterday replayed like film: the screaming, the umbrella clattering, the raw _“I’m going to die”_ echoing off auditorium walls while she waited for shame that never came.
Instead she felt light, like she’d vomited poison she didn’t know was rotting her, bricks falling off her ribs one by one.
12:03pm. It mesmerised her how his eerie, crazy rituals worked on her like unhinged therapy, the umbrellas, the egg sauce, the flat _hydrate_, the way he just stood there and witnessed her without fixing or pity.
She was more curious now, more shocked, more completely gone, pulled in by the calm gravity of a man who said nothing and held everything.
---
Back in the dorm, she did invite Cassie.
12:30pm. “Absolutely not,” Cassie said, groundnuts between her teeth, “you’re going alone. Madam Bi will be there, and Josie— he didn’t touch you when you were bleeding on his clean G.R.A doorstep.”
Josie remembered. The blood on his shirt, his hands deliberately not reaching, and her vulnerable: “He could have. You were a mess. But he didn’t. That means something. Go.”
1:58pm. G.R.A Gate. Josie stood in a white t-shirt and black jeans, hair pulled back, no makeup, no armor, feeling stupid for hoping and sick with purpose because maybe bleeding on his floor was exactly what she was supposed to do.
Her stomach flipped at the word _noodles_, and she couldn’t tell if she was a fool or if she’d finally walked into the right room.
2:00pm. The gate clicked. Orwell stood there in a gray henley, sleeves shoved to his elbows, forearms bare and steady like the weirdo he is, like he hadn’t watched her unravel yesterday and then offered carbs.
He gave her the look, calm patient fire banked low saying _mine to cover_ without sound, then a second glance, quick and certain, like he expected her, like _of course_ she came, like there was never another option.
2:01pm. Josie was drained from hours of replaying and years of holding it in, too weak to allow the sparks and chills humming under her skin, too tired to fight him or herself anymore.
She didn’t say hi, he didn’t say welcome, he just stepped back and held the gate wider, ritual, inevitable, the same as the fourth umbrella offered without question.
2:02pm. “Madam Bi’s inside,” he said, voice low, no _how are you_, no _about yesterday_, just fact and space and her, and Josie walked in too drained to run, too curious to stop.
She was too far gone to pretend this was normal, and the air between them at 2:02pm was charged, heavy, waiting.
2:03pm.
Josie stepped past the gate and the compound hit her.
Alive.
Green hedges trimmed sharp, bougainvillea bleeding magenta against white walls, sunlight spilling over everything like gold paint.
It was stupid how beautiful it looked.
Like the weather didn’t know she’d screamed herself hollow in his auditorium yesterday.
2:04pm.
Orwell shut the gate behind her.
His eyes did a quick sweep.
No Cassie.
He said nothing. Just clocked it. Gray gaze flicking to the empty space beside her before settling forward.
2:05pm.
“Madam Bi’s in the kitchen,” he said again, voice lower this time.
Josie stopped in the
room.
She couldn’t do the kitchen yet.
Not with the memory of egg sauce and _hydrate_ still stuck to the tiles. Not with the air there probably thick with old sparks and her unshed breakdown.
2:06pm.
The living room was cooler.
Sun poured through wide windows, dust motes floating in the light.
Leather couches. Dark wood. Books stacked like quiet sentinels.
Safe. Neutral. Empty of ghosts.
2:07pm.
Footsteps.
Madam Bi appeared from the hallway, apron tied neat, smile warm and knowing.
“Ah, you came,” she said to Josie, eyes crinkling.
Then she turned to Orwell.
“You’ve been pacing that gate since 1:30pm. Like a boy waiting for NEPA light.”
2:08pm.
Orwell stiffened.
Jaw ticked once.
“Madam Bi.” Flat. Final.
It was dismissal wearing his whole personality.
Madam Bi just chuckled and retreated toward the kitchen, muttering about impatient men.
2:09pm.
Something lit up inside Josie.
Bright. Dangerous.
She turned to him.
“You were expecting me?”
2:10pm.
Orwell held her gaze.
For one second he was genuinely stunned.
Caught.
Embarrassment flickered across his face, real and human and so unlike him that it stole her breath.
Then he nodded.
Once.
Short.
Like a good toddler caught by his teacher.
2:11pm.
Heat crawled up Josie’s neck.
She didn’t know what to do with it.
With him.
With the fact that he’d waited. Paced. Wanted her here.
2:12pm.
He moved.
To a low table.
Picked up a ceramic bowl.
Groundnuts. Chin chin. Small, deliberate.
“Appetisers,” he said.
Placed it on the side table near her.
Didn’t meet her eyes.
2:13pm.
Josie sat.
Perched on the edge of the couch.
Picked up a piece of chin chin.
It tasted like sunlight and awkwardness.
2:14pm.
Orwell watched her eat.
Silent.
Gray eyes tracking the movement of her hand to her mouth like it was data.
Then he turned.
Abrupt.
Walked to a shelf.
2:15pm.
He stared at a bronze artefact.
Fingers brushing the edge.
Pretending to be absorbed.
Giving her space.
Letting her eat without feeling like a specimen under glass.
Josie saw it.
The effort.
She swallowed hard, suppressing the hungry dog feeling that always came with his food.
2:16pm.
“You’re too precious for the rain,” he said.
Still facing the artefact.
Voice low. Rough.
Like the words scraped coming out.
2:17pm.
Josie froze.
Chin chin halfway to her mouth.
Embarrassed.
Stunned.
And deeply, stupidly satisfied.
He was being open.
With her.
2:18pm.
The air thickened.
Sunlight felt hotter.
Something was about to happen in the quiet—
2:19pm.
“Jollof is ready!” Madam Bi called from the kitchen.
“Assorted meat. Veg. Come and eat while it’s hot!”
The spell broke.
Orwell turned from the shelf.
Josie exhaled.
2:20pm.
Outside, the sun blazed on.
Inside, the room smelled like tomatoes and smoked meat and all the things he wasn’t saying yet.
2:21pm.
Josie let the chin chin surveillance slide.
For jollof.
She followed him to the dining table, heat still crawling up her neck, embarrassment sitting hot in her stomach like pepper.
2:22pm.
The table was set.
Ceramic bowls steaming. Jollof rice red and rich, assorted meat glistening, vegetables bright against white plates.
Sunlight cut across the wood, catching the silverware.
Madam Bi stood back, hands on her hips, pleased.
2:23pm.
“Sit, sit,” Madam Bi said, waving them down.
Josie sank into a chair.
Orwell sat across from her.
Not beside.
Across.
Safe. Distant. Watching.
2:24pm.
They ate.
Quiet for exactly six seconds.
Then Madam Bi served Josie more meat.
“So,” she said, casual as NEPA taking light, “how did you two meet? What are you people?”
2:25pm.
Josie choked.
On rice. On air. On her entire life.
She wished the ground would open up.
Swallow her whole.
Spit her out in Dr. Iro’s boring pharmacology class where things made sense.
2:26pm.
Orwell didn’t flinch.
He set his fork down.
Deliberate.
“Madam Bi.”
Flat. Gray.
A complete sentence. A whole shutdown.
Not disrespectful.
Just Orwell.
Wall up. Door locked.
2:27pm.
Madam Bi huffed.
But her eyes twinkled.
She turned to Josie instead.
“Ah, this food is good, oh. You know he’s a good cook, enh? He gets it from his mother.”
2:28pm.
The room changed.
Instant.
Like someone switched off the sun.
The air went tight.
2:29pm.
Orwell’s face darkened.
Not anger.
Something older.
His eyes sank, gray going to charcoal, pulling inward like shutters slamming shut.
His jaw locked.
Shoulders went rigid under the henley.
2:30pm.
Josie felt it.
The shift.
Like stepping into cold water.
And it dawned on her.
2:31pm.
She’d never met his parents.
Not once.
In all the visits. All the umbrellas. All the bleeding on his doorstep.
No mother. No father.
Just Madam Bi.
Just him.
2:32pm.
Her mind flew back.
To the study.
To the photograph on his desk.
The man with Orwell’s eyes.
Young. Smiling.
Who was he?
2:33pm.
Orwell picked up his fork.
Resumed eating.
Movement mechanical.
He didn’t look at Madam Bi.
Didn’t look at Josie.
Just stared at his plate like it had offended his ancestors.
2:34pm.
Madam Bi cleared her throat.
“More water?”
Loud. Forced.
The sunlight still streamed in, but the room felt colder now.
Josie pushed rice around her plate.
Suddenly not hungry.
---
2:35pm.
The silence was a third person at the table.
Heavy. Sharp.
Josie could feel Orwell’s darkness radiating across the jollof like a cold front.
2:36pm.
She put her fork down.
Cleared her throat.
“So,” she said, too bright, too loud, “anybody up for football? Out in the sun?”
2:37pm.
Madam Bi blinked.
Orwell looked up.
Actually looked up.
Gray eyes wide for half a second.
Shocked.
2:38pm.
Then amused.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Barely.
But it was there.
A crack in the charcoal.
2:39pm.
Josie’s chest did a stupid flip.
She did that.
She learned the way of the Orwell.
Deflect with weird.
Distract with action.
And it worked.
His countenance shifted, warmth bleeding back into his face like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.
It warmed her heart.
2:40pm.
“You play?” he asked.
Voice still low.
But lighter.
Doubt wrapped in curiosity.
2:41pm.
Josie stood.
Pushed her chair back.
“Try me.”
2:42pm.
Outside was blazing.
2:43pm kind of sun.
The kind that made the bougainvillea glow and the grass smell green and alive.
The compound wasn’t cold anymore.
It was breathing again.
2:43pm.
Orwell followed her out.
Barefoot now.
Gray henley and black sweats.
He tossed her a ball.
Old. Scuffed.
2:44pm.
Before she could catch it, he held up a hand.
Wait.
Disappeared back inside.
Returned in four seconds.
Bottle of water.
2:45pm.
“Hydrate,” he said.
Deadpan.
Holding it out to her like a peace offering. Like an umbrella. Like ritual.
Josie burst out laughing.
Really laughing.
From her stomach.
2:46pm.
He watched her.
Head tilted.
That look again.
Not the _mine to cover_ one.
The _what ARE you_ one.
2:47pm.
“You don’t believe I can play,” she said, taking the water, unscrewing the cap.
It wasn’t a question.
2:48pm.
Orwell rolled his shoulders.
Stretched his neck.
“You look like you run from exercise,” he said.
Flat.
2:49pm.
Josie choked on water.
“Excuse me?”
2:50pm.
“I’ve seen you walk to class,” he said, taking the ball back.
“You sigh at stairs.”
2:51pm.
Madam Bi cackled from the veranda.
“Ah! He’s not lying oh! For a thin girl, you have meat in the right places.”
2:52pm.
Heat shot to Josie’s face.
Embarrassment.
Her eyes brushed against his. He didn't flinch. Like no one had said anything.
“Ready?” Orwell asked.
2:53pm.
He bounced the ball once.
Caught it.
Eyes glinting now.
Fully alive.
Sunlight catching in his gray.
“First to three,” he said.
“Loser does dishes.”
2:54pm.
Josie dropped the water bottle in the grass.
Kicked off her sandals.
“I don’t lose,” she lied.
2:55pm.
Orwell smirked.
Actually smirked.
The world tilted.
“Neither do I,” he said.
And kicked the ball straight at her feet.
Hard.
---
2:56pm. The ball came at her feet like a bullet and Josie shrieked, practically bolting away from the goal post as if it was on fire, her arms flailing in pure panic.
Orwell didn’t even break a sweat, pivoting and scoring with infuriating ease, but his gray eyes stayed locked on her the whole time.
Glinting with something between elation at winning and pure, unfiltered amusement at watching her scurry like a startled cat.
2:57pm. He beat her 3-0 in under four minutes, but every goal he scored only made that look in his eyes deepen, like her flailing and dramatic defeat was more entertaining than the victory itself.
“Hydrate,” he said again when it was over, tossing her the bottle with a softness that didn’t match his smirk, and he watched her drink in that way, head tilted, studying the sweat on her brow like it was a new kind of artifact.
2:58pm. They collapsed on the patio steps, sun baking the stone warm under them, and Josie was still breathing hard, t-shirt clinging to her skin, hair sticking to her temples in damp tendrils.
She nudged him with her elbow, grinning despite the loss, and joked, “Why can’t I be too precious for the sun too? Since I’m apparently too precious for the rain.”
2:59pm. Orwell went still for a beat, the teasing melting off his face as he took in her flushed cheeks, the sweat darkening her collar, the way she was completely unguarded and real in front of him.
Then his voice came, low and steady, stripped of all the football arrogance: “There’s a bathroom Madam Bi can show you, if you’re too sweaty for comfort.”
3:00pm. The offer hung between them in the blazing afternoon, careful and considerate and so distinctly Orwell that Josie’s heart did that stupid flip again, because he’d given her an out without touching her, without assuming.
Sunlight pooled at their bare feet on the patio, and for once the heat between them didn’t feel like embarrassment, just warmth.
▪︎▪︎▪︎
