Under The Umbrella

Chapter Three: Noodles & Dignity

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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....