Chapter Two & Three

---

It was Saturday morning. The kind where the dorm smelled like Omo and burnt eggs, and someone’s Bluetooth speaker was blasting Asake through the walls by 8am. No Dr. Iro. No lectures.

No twenty pairs of eyes deciding if she was brilliant or broken.

Josie was supposed to be studying. Thermo was open on her desk, pages drowning in yellow highlighter. Past questions stacked like punishment. A pen, dead in her hand.

She wasn’t studying.

She was staring.

The black umbrella leaned against her wardrobe like it paid rent. Frayed edges. Scuffed handle. Still damp from Thursday, even though it was Saturday, even though the sun had been out since 7am and Lagos heat could dry a river. Some things stayed wet when you wanted them to.

Josie sat cross-legged on her bed, chin in her palm. Not crying. Not pacing. Not fretting. Just _thinking_. The dangerous kind.

_How do you give an umbrella back to a guy who looks at you like he knows your expiration date?_

_Do you knock? Dump it at the department? Yeet it and run?_

_Does he even want it?_

The umbrella said nothing. Just stood there, judging her life choices.

The door creaked open at 9:13am — right when Cassie usually rolled out of bed to cause problems.

Cassie walked in with two apples and zero chill. She lobbed one at Josie. Josie didn’t catch it. It bounced off her knee and rolled under the bed to die with the dust bunnies.

“You gonna return it or marry it?” Cassie asked, crunching her apple. “Cause the way you’re staring, I’m about to plan the wedding. Vintage emo umbrella meets dying engineering girl. Tragic.”

Josie blinked. “It’s not mine.”

“Duh. It’s Orwell Ferguson’s. Course rep. Trust fund baby cosplaying as a broke mechanic.” Cassie flopped onto her bed. _Thwack._ The rubber ball was back, hitting the wall on schedule. “So? You giving it back? Or should I post it on Jiji? _Slightly haunted umbrella. One careful owner. Will ruin your life._”

Josie picked up the floor apple. Didn’t bite it. “I don’t know how.”

“You use your mouth,” Cassie said. “Like this: ‘Hey Orwell, here’s your umbrella. Thanks for not letting me rust.’ Boom. Done.”

_Boom. Done._ Like it was that easy. Like Josie could face him again and not short-circuit under _that look_. The one that would be the death of her.

“I’ll return it,” Josie said. It sounded like a promise. To the umbrella. To herself. To nobody. “Monday.”

Cassie snorted. “Right. And I’m Beyoncé.” _Thwack. Thwack._

---

Monday came with 8am traffic and students running for 9am classes. Josie didn’t go to school.

Tuesday rolled in with Thermo by 10am, when the lecture hall still smelled like detergent and ambition. She sat through it. Didn’t see him.

Wednesday hit with the 2pm lab, when the sun turned the workshop into an oven. No Orwell.

By Thursday evening, around 6pm when the mosquitoes started their shift, the umbrella was a roommate. It had vibes. Judgy vibes.

_This is stupid_, Josie thought, slamming Thermo shut at 7:42pm. _You’re dying. You don’t have time to be scared of tall guys with savior complexes._

So Friday, during the 1pm rush between classes when everyone was buying gala and Coke, she went hunting.

Problem? Nobody knew Orwell Ferguson.

“Course rep?” The girl at the front desk didn’t look up from her acrylics. “Oh. Yeah. He exists. I think.”

“Where’s his next class?” Josie asked.

Shrug. “He doesn’t do class. He just submits assignments and fixes the printer when it eats someone’s project.”

_Fixes the printer. Fixed my circuit. Fixes everything except himself._

She asked three more people. Got four answers before 3pm. _He’s always in the library. He’s never in the library. He sleeps in the workshop. He has zero friends._

That last one stuck. _Zero friends._

Nobody knew anything about Orwell Ferguson except his name. Full stop. A few girls in 300-level had clocked that he was good looking — like, stupidly good looking — but none of them actually crushed on him. Because he dressed like a hobo who lost a fight with a laundry basket. And girls, as a general rule, don’t write love letters to hobos. Even hot ones.

So at 4pm, when the admin left for break and the student records office was empty, Josie did something dumb. Or brave. Thin line.

The computer was unlocked. _God bless lazy civil servants._

Her hands shook at 4:03pm as she typed: _Ferguson, Orwell_.

His file popped up. ID photo. 21. Engineering. GPA: criminally high. Address: No. 14 Ikenegbu Extension, G.R.A.

_G.R.A. The other side of town._

Her stomach dropped. That was 1 hour by bus. 2 hours if Lagos traffic decided to be toxic today.

She scribbled it on a receipt and shoved it in her pocket like contraband. Because it was.

She didn’t tell Cassie. By 4:30pm, Cassie would’ve screamed, teased, followed her, and live-tweeted the whole thing with hashtags. _#UmbrellaChronicles #HoboHeir #JosieIsUnwell_. No. This was hers. Her dumb, dying, umbrella mission.

---

Saturday came again. 10am, when the sun was already rude and you could hear students arguing about who finished the last sachet water.

Josie told Cassie she was going to the market. Cassie didn’t look up from TikTok. “Buy me plantain chips. And don’t die.”

_No promises._

Two buses. One keke. A lot of sweating. By 12:47pm, she was there.

No. 14 Ikenegbu Extension wasn’t a hostel. Wasn’t a flat. It was a house.

A _house_ house.

White walls, two stories, big glass windows that didn’t have curtains because why would they? Floor-to-ceiling kind of windows. Black gate, the electronic slide-y kind.

Paved driveway. The garden was stupid — manicured lawn, actual flowers, a jacaranda tree that looked like it got haircuts.

The place whispered money. Old money. The kind that didn’t need to yell. _Fancy_. The kind of fancy that made Josie’s dorm look like a carton.

And he dressed like a hobo. _Make it make sense._

The umbrella was heavy by 12:50pm. Or maybe that was her heart.

She stopped at the gate.

And stared.

Same way she’d stared at the umbrella all week. Not crying. Not pacing. Not fretting. Just _looking_. Really looking. At the house that hid the boy who saw her. The boy with no friends. The boy who walked into rain with no umbrella so she wouldn’t have to.

Her knuckles went white on the handle. 12:52pm.

_Knock, Adebayo. One foot. Then the other. That’s engineering._

She didn’t knock.

Not yet.

At 12:53pm on a Saturday, Josie Adebayo stood there, black umbrella in hand, staring at Orwell Ferguson’s front gate like it might stare back.

Wondering if he’d open it and say her surname again.

---

12:53pm.

Josie’s hand rose.

It shook. Not from fear. From weight. The umbrella in her left hand, her own pulse in her right. The gate was black iron, tall enough to make her feel twelve again. She could see the intercom button. Small. Silver. One press and this would be real.

_Knock, Adebayo. One foot. Then the other. That’s engineering._

Her knuckles almost touched metal.

A hand tapped her shoulder.

Josie jerked like she’d grabbed a live wire.

The umbrella hit the pavement with a clatter that sounded like a gunshot in the 12:54pm G.R.A. silence. Her breath caught. No — not caught. _Snagged_. On something jagged in her chest.

She spun.

Orwell Ferguson.

Too close. Too tall. Hoodie the same faded black. Eyes the same pale, tired gray. He wasn’t smiling. He never smiled. But his brows were pulled in. Not at her. _For_ her.

“Didn’t mean to—” he started.

The first cough ripped out of her.

It wasn’t polite. Wasn’t the little cough you do when water goes down wrong. It was a body revolt. A full mutiny from her lungs. It bent her in half.

Then another. And another.

The sound was wet. Ugly. Like her ribs were trying to turn themselves inside out to evict whatever was killing her. The taste of iron flooded her mouth. _No. Not here. Not in front of him. Not on his fancy driveway._

She staggered. Her vision went spotty at the edges. White fence. Black gate. Gray eyes.

“Adebayo.”

His voice cut through the coughing. Not loud. Just… certain. Like a command typed into a console.

Her knees buckled.

He caught her.

Not graceful. Not romantic. Physics. One arm around her back, the other under her arm, keeping her from eating pavement. His hoodie smelled like laundry detergent and engine oil and rain, even though it hadn’t rained today.

“You’re okay,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was engineering again. _Statement of fact. Make it true._

The gate buzzed open behind him. He must’ve had the remote in his pocket.

Josie couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe. Each cough scraped her raw. Her hands fisted in his hoodie. _Sorry. Sorry. Sorry._

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t let go. He half-carried, half-dragged her through the gate. The umbrella stayed behind on the pavement, forgotten.

Inside was cold. AC. Marble. The kind of cold that lived in houses with money. It hit her sweaty skin and made the coughing worse for three awful seconds.

Orwell kicked the door shut. He didn’t set her on a couch. There wasn’t time. He eased her down right there on the floor, her back against the wall, his arm still behind her so her head wouldn’t knock tile.

Then he was gone.

Footsteps. Fast. Not running. Controlled. Like he was calculating the shortest path.

Josie curled in on herself, forehead to her knees. _Breathe. You know how. In. Out. Don’t die on his floor. Cassie would never let you live it down. Ha._

A glass was pressed to her lips. Water. Cold. Real.

“Small sips,” Orwell said. He was crouched in front of her. One knee on the marble. His hand was steady on the glass. The other was flat on the floor, braced. Like he was ready to catch her again if she tipped.

She sipped. It hurt. Everything hurt. But the water was a path. She followed it.

The coughing slowed. Hitched. Slowed.

Silence, except for her breathing. Ragged. Wet. Alive.

Orwell didn’t talk. Didn’t ask _are you okay_ five times like people do. He just waited. Watched her face like it was a circuit board he was debugging. Not pity. Not panic. Just… assessment.

Josie wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. It came away with a smear of red.

She froze.

He saw it.

His jaw did something tight. But his voice, when it came, was even. “Bathroom’s first door on the left. Or stay. Your call, Adebayo.”

_Adebayo_. Not Josie. Never Josie. Like her surname was the only safe thing to call her.

The house was quiet. No TV. No people. Just the hum of the AC and her heartbeat trying to relearn rhythm.

Outside, the umbrella lay on the pavement.

Inside, Josie sat on Orwell Ferguson’s floor, breathing, bleeding, and alive.

And he was still crouched in front of her, holding an empty glass, acting like this was normal.

Like girls just collapsed at his gate every Saturday at 12:54pm.

---

Josie couldn’t move.

Literally. Her legs forgot how. Her brain forgot how to tell them. She was still on the marble floor at 12:55pm, back against the wall, hands flat on the cold tile like she was grounding herself to the earth. The taste of iron was still in her mouth. Her cheeks were hot. _From coughing. From shame. From him._

Orwell stayed crouched for three seconds. Four. Then his eyes did a quick scan — her face, her breathing, the smear she’d already wiped away.

He stood.

“Glass,” he said. Short. Flat. Not asking. “Be right back.”

And he left. Just walked toward what had to be the kitchen, empty glass in hand. No fuss. No _are you okay_. No hovering.

Josie knew what he was doing.

He was giving her air. Real air. Not the kind from the AC. The kind that comes when someone stops looking at you while you’re falling apart.

The second his footsteps faded, she sucked in a breath. It rattled. But it was hers.

_Okay. Up. You’re not dying on his floor, Adebayo. Get up._

She pushed herself to her feet at 12:56pm. Her knees wobbled but held. _Engineering. One joint, then the other._

He said bathroom, first door on the left. Which left? _His_ left? Her left? The hallway had three doors. Her brain was still static from the coughing. She wasn’t about to open his bedroom by accident and die of embarrassment twice in five minutes.

So she didn’t go.

She walked instead.

Into the living room.

And stopped breathing again. But this time not from her lungs.

God.

The place was stupid.

Floor-to-ceiling windows where the G.R.A. sun poured in, but the glass was tinted so it didn’t glare. Just washed everything gold.

The floor was pale marble, veined gray, so clean she could see the soles of her worn trainers reflected back. The ceiling was high. Double height. With recessed lights that weren’t even on because the daylight did the job.

The furniture wasn’t loud. It didn’t scream money. It whispered it. Low charcoal couch, big enough to sleep on. A single armchair in tan leather that looked broken in, not staged.

No TV blaring. Just a massive bookshelf on the far wall. Real books. Not decorations. Some cracked spines. Some engineering manuals. Some novels.

The AC was a quiet hum she only noticed because the dorm never had it. It made the air feel clean. Untouched. Like no one sweated in here. Like no one coughed blood on the floor.

Heavy linen curtains, cream colored, pulled back with simple iron ties. The walls were a soft greige. Not white. Not beige. Something expensive she didn’t know the name of.

There was art. Not the generic kind. One huge canvas — abstract, blues and grays, like a storm caught mid-scream.

And photos.

That’s what caught her.

A side table by the couch. Dark wood. On it, three frames. Silver.

Two were landscapes. The third was a man.

In a suit. Charcoal. Sharp. Sitting behind a wide desk in an office. Leather chair. Bookshelf behind him. He was older. 50s maybe. Salt-and-pepper hair. Same jaw as Orwell. Same eyes, but kinder. Softer. The kind of eyes you saw on posters and Instagram Lives.

Josie stepped closer at 12:57pm.

She didn’t know his name. But she knew the face. She’d seen it on billboards along the express. On her auntie’s WhatsApp status. On social media clips where he was praying for crowds. A pastor. A big one.

She didn’t know why his picture was here. Didn’t connect it to Orwell. Just noted the same jaw.

Her gaze drifted past the photo.

There, on the bookshelf. Tucked between a textbook on fluid mechanics and a novel with a broken spine.

Something else.

Small. Out of place. A—

“Living room’s boring.”

Josie flinched so hard she almost tipped into the side table.

Orwell was in the doorway.

No glass now. Hands in his hoodie pocket. Leaning against the frame like he hadn’t just seen her cough her lungs out. Like he hadn’t just carried her inside.

His eyes flicked to the photo. Then to her.

Flat. Unreadable.

“You found the rich people stuff,” he said.

---

▪︎▪︎▪︎

---

Josie opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Orwell didn’t wait for an answer.

He turned and walked to the low charcoal couch. Sat down. One arm along the back. Legs spread. Hoodie still on. Like this was a bus stop and not his million-naira living room at 12:58pm.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t say _sit down_. Didn’t say anything.

Josie stood there like an idiot.

_Okay. He’s sitting. Am I supposed to… stand? Leave? Die again?_

The silence got heavy. Thicker than the G.R.A. heat outside.

So she moved. Sat in the tan leather armchair across from him. Perched on the edge. Back straight. Knees together. Hands in her lap. Like she was at a job interview for the position of _Girl Who Coughs Blood On Your Floor_.

The air between them was awful.

Not angry. Not tense. _Awkward_. The kind of awkward that made your skin itch.

Orwell wasn’t looking at her like a guy looks at a girl he likes. There was no softness. No heat. No flirting.

It was worse.

He was analyzing.

Gray eyes tracking her face, her hands, the way her trainers were scuffed at the toes. Slight tilt to his head. Brow barely furrowed. Like she was a circuit diagram that wasn’t behaving.

Anticipation. Intrigue. Curiosity.

It made her skin crawl. Not because it was predatory. Because it was _clinical_. Like he was waiting for her to glitch again so he could log the data.

Josie stared at the coffee table. Glass. No coasters. No rings. No life.

Twelve seconds. Thirteen.

Then: “Why were you holding my umbrella?”

Josie’s head snapped up at 12:59pm.

“What?”

Orwell blinked. Slow. “My umbrella. Outside. Why were you holding it.”

Her mouth fell open. _Is he— Are you serious right now?_

“You gave it to me,” she said. Voice higher than she wanted. “Two days ago. In the rain. Outside LT1. You said _take it, Adebayo_.”

He stared.

No recognition. No _oh right_. Just that same flat, processing stare.

Josie felt heat climb up her neck. _Ruffled_ didn’t cover it. She was ironed wrong. _What is this guy? Does he have RAM or RAMen noodles for brains?_

“You don’t remember?” she said.

He tilted his head the other way. “I remember the rain.”

_Oh my God._

Josie pressed her lips together. Hard. _Do not yell at the boy whose floor you bled on, Josie. Do not._

Orwell kept going. “Why do you like the rain so much?”

The question landed at 1:00pm like a brick through glass.

Josie froze.

Not because it was mean. Because it was _weird_. Because she’d spent the last four minutes expecting _Why were you coughing like you were dying?_ Or _Are you sick?_ Or _Should I call someone?_

Any normal person would ask that.

Orwell Ferguson asked about rain.

And umbrellas he forgot he owned.

She looked down at her hands. They were shaking again. Not from the coughing this time. From embarrassment. From the sheer _wrongness_ of this conversation.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because how do you explain that you like the rain because it hides you? Because it’s the only time the world gets quiet enough to hear yourself think? Because it washes the campus clean and for ten minutes nobody is looking at you?

How do you say that to a boy who counted your breaths and forgot his own umbrella?

So she kept quiet.

Orwell didn’t push. He just sat there. Watching. Waiting.

The AC hummed.

The pastor in the photo smiled from behind his desk.

Josie kept quiet.

Orwell didn’t push. He just sat there. Watching. Waiting. The AC hummed at 1:01pm.

Then he shifted. Leaned back into the couch like he was settling in for a lecture. Gray eyes still locked on her, but now they were… distant. Like he’d tabbed out of her and

opened another app in his brain.

Josie could feel herself ruffling. Actually ruffling. Like her edges were coming undone. _This is insane. He’s insane. I’m sitting in his house, after coughing blood on his shoes, and he wants to talk about RAIN._

She opened her mouth to say something. Anything. _Are you okay? Am I okay? Why is your dad a pastor? What is wrong with you?_

Orwell beat her to it.

“You didn’t answer,” he said.

Josie blinked. “What?”

“The question. From before.”

_Before._ Before what? The coughing? The floor? The umbrella? _Which question, Orwell? Use your words like a normal person._

She didn’t ask. She just stared.

He stared back. Three seconds. Four.

Then his eyes flicked down to her hands. To the way she was gripping her knees. Then to the hallway. Like he’d remembered something important and it had nothing to do with her.

“Do you have allergies,” he said.

Not a question. A statement. Flat.

Josie recoiled at 1:02pm. “Allergies? What? No. Why—”

“The kitchen is open,” he said, cutting her off. Pointing with his chin toward the archway past the living room. “Open plan. If you’re allergic to nuts, shellfish. Dust. I should close the vents.”

Josie followed his gaze. Yeah. There it was. The kitchen. Marble island. Stainless steel. Spotless. Open to the living room like he said. You could cook and watch someone emotionally combust on your couch at the same time. Convenient.

_He’s thinking about allergens. Right now. After I almost died._

“Orwell,” she said slowly. “I’m not— I don’t have allergies.”

He nodded once. Like that was data confirmed. Then: “You’re allergic to umbrellas.”

Josie choked. On air this time. “I’m _what_?”

“You didn’t use one,” he said. “When the rain was falling. Outside LT1. So I lent you mine. Logical conclusion. Umbrella intolerance.”

The silence that followed was so loud Josie could hear her own pulse in her ears.

_Is this guy insane?_

The word screamed in her head. _Insane. Unhinged. He forgot he gave me the umbrella two days ago, asked me why I had it, and now he thinks I’m ALLERGIC TO UMBRELLAS because I didn’t own one._

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She wanted to throw the silver photo frame at his head.

Instead she just whispered, “You gave it to me.”

Orwell tilted his head. Processing. Then: “Oh.”

_Oh._

Like he’d just remembered where he left his keys. Not like he’d just accused her of having a fictional disease.

Josie slumped back into the leather chair at 1:03pm. Defeated. Ruffled beyond repair.

_He remembers the rain but not the umbrella. He counts my breaths but not his own actions. He asks about allergies but not the blood._

The AC was still humming.

The pastor was still smiling.

And Josie was still staring at the boy who was 60% water, 40% glitch, and 0% socially functional.

She couldn’t even be mad. Just tired.

“…Why are you like this,” she muttered. Mostly to herself.

Orwell heard anyway.

He blinked. “Like what.”

Josie opened her mouth. Closed it. _Like WHAT? Where do I start? With the umbrella amnesia? The allergen TED Talk? The fact that you counted my breaths like I’m a lab rat?_

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The words were stuck somewhere between her ribs and her pride.

So she just sat there. Silent at 1:03pm.

Orwell watched.

Not like a normal person waiting for a reply. Like a scientist waiting for a reaction in a petri dish. Gray eyes doing that slow, clinical scan again. Face to hands to posture. Cataloging. Dissecting her without a scalpel.

Josie felt stripped. Not in a romance way. In a _he can see my search history_ way.

Three seconds. Four. Five.

The AC hummed.

Then, out of nowhere: “Do you like noodles.”

Josie actually jolted. “What.”

“Noodles,” Orwell said. Same flat tone he lused for _umbrella intolerance_. “Instant. Packaged. Sodium heavy. Do you like them.”

Josie stared at him.

_This is my life now._

That was the thought. Clear and devastating. _This is my life now. Stuck with this crazy guy who keeps firing questions from nowhere and aiming them at me like darts. No warning. No context. Just: allergies. rain. noodles._

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her brain was still buffering from the whiplash.

Orwell took her silence as a yes. Or a no. Or irrelevant.

He stood up at 1:04pm. “Kitchen.”

Josie blinked. “Huh?”

He was already walking. Toward that open-plan kitchen he’d pointed at earlier. He didn’t look back. Didn’t check if she was following. Just expected it.

Like she was a duckling. Like this was normal.

_It’s not normal, Josie. None of this is normal._

But she stood anyway. Because what else was she gonna do? Stay in the rich-people chair and combust?

She followed him. Slow. Wary. Like the marble floor might bite her.

The kitchen was stupid too. Of course it was. Waterfall marble island. No stains. No crumbs. Stainless steel everything. A pot rack hanging from the ceiling with pans that looked like they’d never seen heat. Double door fridge that probably had Wi-Fi.

Orwell pulled out a bar stool. Pushed it toward her.

“Sit.”

Josie sat. At 1:05pm. Because arguing felt harder than obeying.

He turned away. Opened a cabinet. Pulled out a pack of Indomie. The red one. Onion chicken. Then another.

_Two packs. For me?_

He didn’t ask. Didn’t explain. Just filled a stainless steel pot with water from a tap that probably filtered sins. Set it on the induction stove. Tapped the screen. The burner lit up blue.

Josie watched him.

He moved like he was in a lab. Precise. No wasted motion. No humming. No small talk. Just water, heat, noodles, seasoning. Cracked an egg into the boiling water. Fished it out with a slotted spoon. Soft yolk. Set it aside.

The whole time, she waited for the _real_ question. _Why were you coughing? Are you sick? Should I be worried?_

It never came.

At 1:09pm he set the bowl in front of her.

Steaming. Perfect. Two packs of noodles. Soft boiled egg cut in half on top. Yolk running. Sprinkle of pepper. No veg. No meat. Just carbs and sodium and whatever _this_ was.

He didn’t sit. Didn’t eat. Just stood across the island, hands in his hoodie pocket, watching her like she was still the experiment.

Josie stared down at it.

Her throat was raw. Her pride was bruised. Her brain was fried.

And there were noodles.

Made by the boy who forgot his umbrella, diagnosed her with umbrella allergy, and asked about rain instead of blood.

She didn’t know if she should cry. Or eat. Or run.

So she stared.

Orwell tilted his head. “Eat,” he said. “Before it gets cold.”

Like that was the most logical thing in the world.

Josie kept staring. At the noodles. At him. At the way his gray eyes weren’t leaving her face.

The air got heavy again. Not from awkwardness this time. From _being watched_.

He noticed.

Orwell’s head tilted a fraction at 1:10pm. His eyes did one more scan — her hands, her shoulders, the way her jaw was clenched like she was bracing for impact.

Then he turned.

No word. No explanation. Just walked out of the kitchen.

Footsteps faded toward the living room. Then silence.

Josie sat there. Alone.

The AC hummed. The noodles steamed.

_He left._

She blinked. _He actually left. Gave me food and vanished._

For three seconds she didn’t move. Because this whole day was a fever dream and she was waiting for the catch.

There wasn’t one.

Her stomach growled. Loud. Betraying her.

Josie exhaled.

And dug in.

God.

It was good.

Like _stupid_ good. The noodles were soft but not mushy. The broth was rich, salty, peppered right. The egg yolk ran into everything and made it creamy. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. How empty. How much coughing takes out of you.

She ate at 1:11pm. Fast at first. Then slower. Savoring. Because when was the last time someone cooked for her? Not dorm cafeteria slop. Not her own sad attempts in the hostel kettle. _Real_ food. Made for her. By him.

_This crazy guy._

By 1:13pm the bowl was empty.

And she was still hungry.

That’s when she did something stupid.

Her eyes flicked to the stove. The pot was still there. Stainless steel, lid half off. And inside — leftovers. Not much. A clump of noodles stuck to the bottom. Some broth. The sad bits you scrape out when you’re broke and desperate.

_Don’t do it, Adebayo._

She did it.

Josie stood. Reached for the pot. Used the fork from her bowl. Scooped the leftovers straight from the pan like a gremlin. Shoved it in her mouth at 1:14pm.

Salty. Hot. Delicious.

_No shame. No dignity left anyway._

She chewed, turned back toward the island to sit down again, and—

Froze.

Orwell was standing there.

At the edge of the kitchen island. Silent. No footsteps. No warning. Just _there_.

In his hand was a black umbrella. Folded. Dry. The one from two days ago. The one he’d forgotten. The one he’d diagnosed her with an allergy to.

His gray eyes were on her. On the fork in her hand. On the pot she’d just raided like a raccoon.

One second. Two. Three.

Josie’s stomach dropped to her feet.

_Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God._

Orwell tilted his head.

Lifted the umbrella slightly.

“This umbrella,” he said at 1:15pm. Flat. No accusation. No amusement. Just fact. “Yours now.”

Josie didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Because she was standing there like a disaster. Broth still in her mouth. Fork in one hand. Pan in the other. Hunched over like a hungry dog that got caught dumpster diving.

_This is it,_ she thought. _This is the lowest. It doesn’t get lower than this._

She was embarrassed. Beyond embarrassed. The kind of embarrassment that makes you want to crawl into the marble floor and become grout. She was frustrated with herself. With her body for coughing. With her stomach for being hungry. With her hands for stealing noodles from a pot like she hadn’t eaten in years.

_What do I even do? Apologize? Bow? Fake my death?_

Orwell didn’t say anything else.

He just stuck the umbrella out toward her. Handle first.

Expecting.

Waiting.

Like this was a perfectly normal transaction. _Here. Take the cursed object. Sign the receipt with your dignity._

Josie did the most logical thing she could do.

She put the pan down. Loud clink on the stove at 1:16pm. Set the fork on the counter. Swallowed the broth in her mouth even though it burned her throat.

And walked toward him.

Each step felt like wading through cement.

She took the umbrella.

Her fingers brushed his. Cold. Steady. Not a single tremor.

Orwell let go. Turned. Walked past her.

Josie stood there, umbrella in hand, wondering if she should leave now. Or ever speak again.

She heard a drawer open. The soft rustle of paper.

Then he was back.

He held out a napkin. White. Folded.

Josie stared at it. Then at him.

_Oh my God. What have I gotten myself into._

Her cheeks were on fire. Her whole face was hot. Because she knew. She _knew_ there was broth on her chin. She could feel it.

Orwell didn’t say _you have food on your face_. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t cringe.

He just mistook her mortification for confusion.

And said, “Wipe.”

Then again, firmer. “Wipe it.”

Meaning her mouth.

Josie wanted to melt.

She set the umbrella down on the island. Took the napkin at 1:17pm. Hands shaking.

And wiped her mouth.

While she was wiping, he did it again.

The scan.

Clinical. Gray eyes moving from her face to her posture to her breathing. Like she was a case study and he was logging vitals. No warmth. No judgment. Just data.

Josie couldn’t take it.

_He cannot keep looking at me like that. I’ll explode._

So she looked away. Turned her head toward the windows. Kept wiping even though her mouth was clean now. Because if she looked at him, she might cry. Or scream. Or both.

When she was done, she crumpled the napkin. Tossed it in the trash under the sink. The one that probably auto-opened.

Then she came back.

And stood before him.

At 1:18pm.

Like a student waiting for instruction from her teacher. Hands by her sides. Eyes down. Shoulders tight. Umbrella forgotten on the island.

_Just tell me to leave. Please. End this._

Orwell studied her for two seconds.

Then: “Where do you live.”

Not a question. A statement.

Josie’s head snapped up.

_What?_

He wasn’t asking to be polite. He wasn’t making conversation.

He was asking because he wanted to drop her off.

Like this.

Like she was a package he needed to return.

---

She walked into Hostel D at 1:52pm.

The hallway smelled like sweat and Indomie and cheap perfume. Home.

She got to her door. Room 214. Keyed in. Pushed it open.

Cassie was on her bed.

Still in her shoes. White sneakers, laces undone. Still in her jeans and the oversized FUTA Engineering tee she wore to thermo class. Backpack dumped on the floor. Meaning she literally just walked in. Just got back from lecture.

Their eyes met.

And it started.

The staring competition.

Cassie’s brows went up at 1:53pm. Her eyes flicked to the umbrella in Josie’s hand. Black. Sleek. Expensive. Not the N500 market kind. Her sharp, pear-shaped eyes narrowed — that look she got when she was calculating exactly how much nonsense you were about to feed her. Her full lips pressed together.

Josie’s grip tightened.

Five seconds. Six.

Cassie broke first. Snorted. “Ah. Okay.”

Josie said nothing.

“What are you doing with the umbrella when you said you were going to the market?” Cassie said, tilting her head. She’d been expecting fresh hot rice and stew. Not this. Not Josie looking like she’d seen a ghost and stole its property.

Josie blinked.

_The market?_

Right. She’d lied. This morning. Before the coughing. Before the collapse. Before _him_. She’d told Cassie she was running to the market to get sachet water and soap.

That was 9am Josie.

9am Josie didn’t know she’d end up on Orwell Ferguson’s marble floor.

1:53pm Josie was confused.

Too tired. Too embarrassed. Too overwhelmed to even form words. Her brain was mush. Her throat still hurt. Her cheeks still burned from the napkin incident.

So she did the only thing she could.

She walked over to her little desk. The one with the chipped corner and the wobbly leg. And sat in the chair.

Hard.

The umbrella went on the desk. _Thud._

Cassie watched her. Then sighed. Long. Dramatic. “You did something stupid, didn’t you?”

Josie didn’t look up.

She nodded.

Once.

Miserable.

Cassie sat up straighter. “_Chineke_. How bad?”

Josie opened her mouth. Closed it.

Then it all came out.

In a rush at 1:54pm.

“I collapsed,” she said. “On a guy’s front door. In G.R.A. And he carried me inside like a baby. Cleaned me up. Gave me food to eat. Two packs of noodles with egg. And then he dropped me off like a package. Like I’m Amazon. And told me to hydrate.”

Silence.

Cassie stared at her.

Then slowly, deliberately, kicked off her sneakers. One. Then the other. _Thud. Thud._

“Josie,” she said. “Start. From. The. Beginning.”

---

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