Under The Umbrella

Chapter Ten: Mares

---

10:57pm. The dread hit first.

Like ice water dumped down her spine. Seeing him like that — Orwell, _her_ Orwell, the man who moved like stillness was a weapon — wrecked. Sheets strangling him. Sweat carving rivers down his temples. Face twisted into something ten years older than the man who’d said _I was shown you_ six hours ago.

10:58pm. Madam Bi kept tapping. “Oga, wake! Wake now!”

And then it happened.

10:59pm. His eyes flew open.

Not slow. Not groggy. Violent.

And they found hers.

11:00pm. For a second, time snagged.

The fear in the room — thick, choking, diluting the cedar and solder — it stuttered.

Because his eyes lit up.

Not relief. Not confusion.

_Delight._

Unfiltered. Undeniable. The kind a drowning man gets when a rope hits the water.

Like she could save him.

Like she _was_ saving him, just by standing there.

11:01pm. Josie’s lungs seized.

The look gutted her. It was too raw. Too real. Too much like that afternoon when he’d said _I was shown you_ and her whole body had said _yes_.

look at people like that._

11:02pm. It was too much. The presence. The fear. The way his face broke open when he saw her. The way Madam Bi was still chanting prayers under her breath.

Josie took one step back. Then another.

11:03pm. She turned. Walked back to the lavender room on legs that didn’t feel like hers. Crawled under the gray blanket.

11:04pm. Sleep took her again. Violent and immediate. Like her mind slammed the door on the world.

---

7:12am. The smell woke her.

Not cedar. Not solder.

Coffee. Bread. Something frying.

7:13am. Josie sat up. Head pounding. Mouth dry.

The nightmare. The living room. _His eyes._

Did it happen?

7:14am. She pulled on her own clothes from yesterday. Jeans. Crumbled white tee. Anything to feel like herself again.

7:15am. Downstairs.

And there he was.

7:16am. Orwell. In the kitchen. Black henley, sleeves pushed up. Hair damp like he’d showered. Plating eggs with surgical precision. Madam Bi nowhere in sight.

Regular Orwell.

Professor Orwell.

Like 10:59pm had never existed.

7:17am. The normalcy was worse than the nightmare. It petrified her.

How could he stand there, calm, _whole_, after she’d seen him come apart? After his eyes had lit up like she was salvation?

7:18am. He glanced up. Mug in hand.

“You’re awake.” Voice level. Neutral. “Where to today? Your 8am, or are you skipping to write my obituary after last night’s performance?”

7:19am. The most Orwell-ish statement. Dry. Deflecting. A blade wrapped in silk.

Josie wasn’t in the mood.

7:20am. She stepped into the kitchen. Didn’t sit. Arms crossed over her chest like armor.

“What happened last night.” It wasn’t a question.

7:21am. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t reach for coffee. Didn’t do anything except set his mug down. Slow. Deliberate.

7:22am. “You saw,” he said.

Not denial. Not _what are you talking about_.

Clean. Blunt. A door kicked open.

7:23am. “Every night,” he said. Flat. Like he was reciting weather patterns. “Since I was sixteen. My parents.”

7:24am. The words landed like stones in her stomach.

_Parents._

_Late._

_Every single night._

7:25am. Josie’s breath caught.

She’d expected deflection. A lecture. A _we don’t discuss this_.

Not this. Not the truth, stripped bare and bleeding on his kitchen counter.

7:26am. She stared at him. Really looked.

The dark smudges under his eyes she’d thought were just genetics. The way he never slept in class. The way his jaw locked when people mentioned family.

Sixteen.

He’d been having that nightmare since he was sixteen.

7:27am. Her throat closed.

He slid a plate toward her. Two eggs. Toast. Avocado, sliced thin.

“Eat.”

7:28am. She couldn’t.

The food blurred. His eyes were on her — scanning, cataloging, the way he did with broken code or students who lied. But now it felt different. Heavy.

She wasn’t hungry. She was _heartbroken_.

7:29am. “You don’t always have to be an umbrella,” she said.

Her voice cracked on the last word.

Her eyes watered. She hated it. Hated that he saw it.

7:30am. His gaze cut away.

Fast. Like he’d been burned.

For the first time since she’d met him, Dr. Orwell looked away first.

7:31am. He grabbed his keys off the counter.

“I’ll drive you to school.”

Not a question. Not a suggestion.

An umbrella, opening anyway.

7:32am. Josie didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Because she finally understood.

The man who said _I was shown you_ was the same man who woke up screaming every night since he was a boy.

And she didn’t know which one terrified her more.

---

7:33am. Josie followed him.

She didn’t remember deciding to. One second she was frozen in his kitchen, staring at the plate of cold eggs. The next her feet were moving. Behind his. Through the foyer. Past the umbrella stand with three black umbrellas and one lavender one that didn’t belong.

7:34am. The morning air hit her face. Clean. Sharp. Too normal for a day that started with _every night since I was sixteen_.

His car beeped. Sleek. Black. Unmarked by nightmares.

7:35am. She slid into the passenger seat. The leather was cold.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t turn on the radio. Just pulled out of the driveway, hands steady at ten and two like he hadn’t been thrashing in sheets nine hours ago.

7:36am. The drive was silent.

Josie stared.

Not at the road. At him.

7:37am. She searched his profile for cracks. For anything. The dark smudge under his eye. The set of his jaw. The white-knuckle grip that should be there but wasn’t.

Nothing.

7:38am. His face was a locked room. Clean lines. Controlled breath. Professor Orwell, driving his student to class.

Like she hadn’t seen his eyes light up in delight. Like she hadn’t heard Madam Bi’s desperate _Oga, wake_.

7:39am. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’ll assume you’re planning to dissect me,” he said.

Voice dry. Orwell-ish. A blade meant to cut the tension.

7:40am. It didn’t work.

Josie couldn’t even blush. Couldn’t summon the muscle for embarrassment.

Her throat was too full. Her chest too tight. Every breath felt borrowed.

7:41am. She pressed her forehead to the cold window.

_You don’t always have to be an umbrella._

He’d looked away. Like it burned.

7:42am. The rest of the drive bled by. Traffic. Stoplights. The world moving like it hadn’t seen a man come apart at 11pm.

7:43am. He pulled up in front of her dorm.

Didn’t kill the engine. Didn’t look at her.

7:44am. Josie fumbled with the handle. “Orwell—”

“Go,” he said. Still not looking. “Before you’re late.”

7:45am. She got out.

He drove off before her door fully shut.

---

7:46am. The dorm hallway was too bright. Too loud.

Cassie’s door was open. Music spilling out. Something angry and loud and nothing like cedar or solder.

7:47am. Josie stepped inside.

Cassie turned from her mirror, eyeliner wand in hand. Took one look at Josie’s face and dropped it.

“Jesus. Josie?”

7:48am. That was it.

The breaking point.

7:49am. Josie crumpled.

Right there on the cheap dorm carpet. Knees giving out. A sob tearing out of her chest like it had been clawing to get free since 10:57pm.

7:50am. Cassie was on the floor with her in a second. Arms around her. “Hey, hey. Babe. What happened? Are you sick? Is it your—”

7:51am. _Your health._

The words hung there.

And Josie froze mid-sob.

7:52am. Her health.

Her meds.

The little orange bottle she hadn’t touched since—

7:53am. _Since yesterday afternoon._

Since before the rain. Before the guest room. Before _I was shown you_. Before the nightmare.

7:54am. She’d spent almost twenty-four hours at his house.

Slept. Woke. Panicked. Saw him break. Confronted him.

All without her meds.

7:55am. “It’s not my health,” Josie whispered. Voice wrecked.

But her hands flew to her stomach. To her pulse. To all the places that should have been shaking, spinning, _wrong_ by now.

7:56am. Nothing.

She was breathing. Heart beating. Not dizzy. Not nauseous.

Fine.

She’d been _fine_.

7:57am. At his house. In his t-shirt. Under his gray blanket. In the car with his nightmares sitting between them.

_Fine._

7:58am. Cassie pulled back. “Josie? Talk to me.”

Josie looked at her. Eyes wide. Tears still running.

7:59am. “I forgot,” she said. “I forgot to take them. And I’m—”

She couldn’t finish.

Because what did it mean?

That his house was safer than her medication?

That _he_ was?

8:00am. The realization hit harder than the dread at 10:55pm.

And Josie broke down all over again.

---

*Chapter 7.12 — 10:03am*

_Third person limited, Josie’s POV_

10:03am. Dr. Iro’s voice was white noise.

Something about cortical mapping. Something Josie usually lived for.

10:04am. Her pen moved. Notes formed. But her mind was in a kitchen.

_Every night. Since I was sixteen. My parents._

10:05am. She underlined _amygdala_ three times. Hard enough to tear the paper.

The umbrella. The delight in his eyes. The way he’d looked away like her words burned.

10:06am. It was too much.

Too much for 8am. Too much for 10am. Too much for a Tuesday that was supposed to be normal.

---

1:17pm. The quad was loud.

Students laughing. Frisbees flying. Life going on like a man hadn’t told her he woke up screaming every night since he was a boy.

1:18pm. Josie bought coffee she didn’t drink. Sat on a bench she didn’t feel.

Her phone buzzed. Cassie: _You alive???_

1:19pm. _Define alive,_ she wanted to text back.

Instead she typed: _In class. Talk later._

1:20pm. What was he in her life?

Professor. Shelter. Nightmare.

_I was shown you._

1:21pm. The thought clouded everything. Lecture slides. Conversations. The taste of her cold coffee.

She was drowning in him. And he’d driven away like she was just another student.

---

3:42pm. The department email came in.

SUBJECT: TUTORIAL VENUE CHANGE – ADVANCED COGNITIVE SYSTEMS

LOCATION: MAIN LIBRARY, STUDY ROOM 3B

INSTRUCTOR: ORWELL FERGUSON – COURSE REP

3:43pm. Josie’s thumb stopped scrolling.

_Dr. O._

Orwell.

3:44pm. Her stomach dropped. Then clenched.

The library.

3:45pm. She had two hours.

Two hours to talk herself out of it. To be rational. To remember he’d said _Go_ and driven off like 7:29am never happened.

3:46pm. She didn’t.

4:12pm. She was walking to the library.

Early.

Willing to take on the Orwell weirdness. The dry comments. The scanning eyes. The way he built walls out of silence.

4:13pm. Because she needed to confront him again.

Needed to know if 10:59pm was real. If _every night since I was sixteen_ was something she was allowed to touch.

---

4:28pm. Study Room 3B was at the back. Past the silent study carrels. Past the smell of old books and dust.

Scantily populated.

Three students, heads down, laptops open. None of them looked up when she entered.

4:29pm. And there he was.

4:30pm. Orwell.

Standing at the head of the long table. Black button-down today, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Same precise forearms. Same stillness.

4:31pm. He was preparing.

The best possible Orwell way.

4:32pm. Laptop open, angled exactly 15 degrees. A stack of printed readings, tapped into a perfect block. Dry-erase markers lined up by color. Black, blue, red. No green. He hated green.

4:33pm. He didn’t look up when she walked in.

But his fingers paused on the markers. Half a second.

4:34pm. He knew she was there.

Of course he did.

4:35pm. Josie slid into a chair. Not at the head of the table. Not at the foot.

Across from where he stood.

Close enough to see the dark smudges under his eyes that no one else noticed.

Close enough to confront.

4:36pm. The room was quiet.

He uncapped the black marker. Tested it on the corner of the board.

4:37pm. And waited.

For the class. For the weirdness. For her.

---

4:38pm. Josie waited.

Patient.

Not the awkward kind of patient. Not the embarrassed kind. Not the _please-don’t-notice-me_ kind she’d worn for two years in his lectures.

4:39pm. This was different.

This was the patience of a girl who’d watched him come apart at 10:59pm. Who’d heard _every night since I was sixteen_. Who’d said _you don’t always have to be an umbrella_ and watched him flinch.

4:40pm. The other three students typed. Keys clicking.

Orwell capped the black marker. Set it down.

4:41pm. “What did you mean,” Josie said.

Her voice didn’t shake.

“Yesterday. You said _I was shown you_.”

4:42pm. His eyes lifted.

Just his eyes. Not his head. Not his body.

Stillness weaponized.

4:43pm. “Symbiotic systems,” he said. Level. Lecturing. “Organisms evolve proximity responses. Neural mirroring. Co-regulation. Humans are not exempt from—”

4:44pm. “Is that all I am?”

Josie cut him off.

Loud in the quiet room. One of the students glanced up, then back down fast.

4:45pm. Orwell looked at her.

Really looked.

The look.

The one he used on students who challenged him without doing the reading. The one meant to strip confidence down to bone.

4:46pm. It didn’t work.

Because she’d seen the other look. The one at 11:00pm. _Delight._ Drowning man. Rope.

This was just armor.

4:47pm. She was adamant. Chin up. Hands flat on the table. “Answer me. Am I just a proximity response to you?”

4:48pm. His jaw ticked. Once.

Then he averted his eyes.

Fast. Like 7:30am in the kitchen. Like _you don’t always have to be an umbrella_ burned all over again.

4:49pm. “The tutorial starts at five,” he said. Dry. Orwell-ish. A blade wrapped in dismissal. “If you’re here to learn, sit. If you’re here to psychoanalyze, the door’s—”

4:50pm. The door opened.

Four girls. Giggling. Perfume and highlighters.

“Sorry we’re late, Orwell!” One of them — blonde, pre-med, always sat front row — beamed at him. “Room was hard to find.”

4:51pm. And he let them.

4:52pm. He turned. Body shifting toward them. Attention snapping away from Josie like a rubber band.

“Seats. Notes out. We’re covering recursive inhibition.”

4:53pm. Just like that.

Distracted.

For the rest of the class.

4:54pm. He fielded their questions. Smiled — thin, professorial — at their jokes. Explained diagrams with his back half-turned to Josie.

4:55pm. Anger rose in her.

Hot. Sharp. Different from dread. Different from heartbreak.

4:56pm. This was dissatisfaction.

With his science. With his walls. With the way he could look at her like salvation at 11:00pm and like a stranger at 4:52pm.

4:57pm. She picked up her pen.

Not to take notes.

To keep from throwing it at him.

4:58pm. The umbrella had holes.

And now he was pretending it wasn’t raining.

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