Chapter Six: In The Auditorium
---
The weeks after felt off at 6:00pm.
Josie picked up on it.
Orwell stopped showing up to class.
Thermo II continued without him. Notes came through the class rep. Assignments appeared on the portal.
But no gray eyes.
No scanning.
No _Don’t be late_.
She couldn’t decide how she felt.
Relief?
Irritation?
Maybe both at once.
Then Dr. Ewenudi called her into his office at 2:17pm, Tuesday.
“Miss Josie,” he said, pushing his glasses up. “Orwell has moved the class to his residence.”
Josie got flustered.
Instant.
“His... residence?”
She wasn’t sure if it was appropriate. A guy hosting tutorials at his house.
With those girls. With _her_.
With umbrellas and arm grips and that iron-against-iron moment still burning her wrist.
Dr. Ewenudi shook his head. “It’s secure. Other students will be present. And they won’t be using the main house. The house itself. There’s a separate structure outside. A small auditorium.”
Josie stared.
_Outside his house. A small auditorium._
It felt strange.
And she questioned it.
_Why use an auditorium for five students?_
It didn’t add up.
But she agreed.
What choice did she have?
That evening, Josie carried the second umbrella with her.
The black one from Room B.
Cassie spotted it at 9:43pm.
And Cassie lost it.
Dark skin lit up. Those sharp, pear-shaped eyes went wide. Full lips fell open.
“HE GAVE YOU A SECOND ONE???”
“Technically I went back for it—”
“JOSIE. THIS MAN KEEPS OFFERING YOU COVERING. THE UMBRELLA IS A COVENANT. NOW HE’S CALLING YOU TO HIS GROUND??”
“It’s not— it’s an _auditorium_—”
“GIRL. ATTEND THE CLASS. GOD IS MOVING. IF A MAN BUILDS AN AUDITORIUM FOR FIVE PEOPLE, YOU SHOW UP.”
Josie didn’t fight her.
Because Cassie had that expression.
The _prophetic_ one.
So Josie showed up for the class at his residence at 4:00pm, Wednesday.
The G.R.A. house was overwhelming.
Large. White. Silent.
And beyond the gate stood the “small auditorium.”
It wasn’t small.
Glass walls. Modern design. Five seats. One table. Whiteboard. AC running.
For five people.
The four girls were already there. Nails. Lashes. Human hair. Perfume thick in the air.
Orwell was there.
Same gray eyes. Same silence.
The session ran as usual at 4:05pm.
First Law. Second Law. Entropy.
He taught. They circled. Josie wrote notes.
Nothing out of place.
Until she was packing to leave at 5:30pm.
She slung her bag over her shoulder.
The girls exited first. _“Bye Orwell! See you next time!”_
Then it was only her.
And him.
He rose at 5:31pm.
Met her gaze.
Then he spoke.
“Come inside.”
Josie’s chest tightened.
_Inside?_
Into his actual house?
She had no reason why.
No explanation for what.
But she went with him.
A new kind of trust.
One she didn’t fully grasp.
She moved past the auditorium doors.
Climbed the steps.
Entered the G.R.A. house.
At 5:33pm.
The door shut behind them.
Then he turned at 5:34pm.
Gray eyes steady on her.
“Do you believe you’re being led by The Spirit?”
Josie froze.
Because of all the questions, that was not the one she expected.
5:34pm.
The door clicked shut behind them.
And Josie was stuck on his question.
_Do you believe you’re being led by The Spirit?_
The G.R.A. house was quiet.
Too quiet.
White walls. High ceilings. Marble floors that echoed every breath. It smelled like him. Clean. Sharp. Like rain and expensive soap and something she couldn’t name.
Orwell didn’t move.
He was still watching her.
Gray eyes. No scan this time.
Just… waiting.
Josie’s throat went dry at 5:35pm.
“I—”
She didn’t know.
Was she?
The umbrellas. The porch. The _Hydrate_. The auditorium for five people. The way he always showed up before she even knew she needed him.
Was that The Spirit?
Or was it just _him_?
“I don’t know,” she said. Finally. Honest. Small.
Orwell nodded.
Like that was the right answer.
He turned at 5:36pm.
“Follow me.”
Josie followed.
Because what else was she going to do?
He led her through a hallway. Past a living room that looked like it belonged in a magazine. Past a staircase.
To a door.
He opened it.
It wasn’t a bedroom.
It wasn’t a study.
It was a small room.
Books. Floor to ceiling. Medical texts. Engineering journals. Bibles. Notebooks stacked neat.
And a desk.
On the desk:
Her file.
FUTA clinic file.
_Josie Adebayo._
Next to it: a glass of water.
And the first umbrella.
The one from the porch.
Dry. Folded. Waiting.
Josie’s breath caught at 5:37pm.
Orwell walked in.
Picked up the glass of water.
Held it out to her.
“Hydrate.”
Same word. Same flat tone.
But his eyes weren’t scanning now.
They were soft.
Josie stared at the water.
Then at the umbrella.
Then at her file.
“What is this?” she whispered.
Orwell set the water down at 5:38pm.
“You collapsed on my porch,” he said. “You left the first umbrella. You left the second one at the bus stop. You didn’t take your meds on time last Tuesday.”
Josie flinched.
_How does he know that?_
“You’re sick,” he said. Simple. “And you keep running.”
The room went still.
Except for her heart.
Pounding.
“I built the auditorium because you need space to learn without distractions,” he said. “I brought you in here because you need to stop running long enough to drink water.”
Josie looked at him.
Really looked.
And for the first time, she didn’t see a human calculator.
She saw a boy.
Tired.
Gray eyes holding something heavy.
“Why?” she asked. Voice shaking. “Why do you care?”
Orwell didn’t answer at 5:39pm.
He just pushed the glass closer.
And waited.
Like he had all the time in the world.
Like he’d wait until she figured it out herself.
Outside, the rain started again.
Soft. Against the windows.
Josie picked up the glass.
Her hands shook. And she drank.
Josie set the glass down. Empty.
Her hands were still shaking.
The rain tapped the windows. Soft. Like God was listening.
Orwell was still watching her.
No scan.
No clipboard.
Just gray eyes.
Steady.
Then he spoke at 5:41pm.
“I’ve been watching you for a long time.”
Josie froze.
Not the creepy way.
The _I saw you before you saw yourself_ way.
Her mouth went dry again.
“What?”
“Since the first week,” he said. Flat. Honest. “Engineering Library. You were coughing. You kept going to the bathroom. You weren’t eating.”
Josie’s stomach dropped.
_He noticed that?_
“You looked like you were carrying something heavy,” he said. “So I watched.”
The words sat in the room.
Heavy.
Real.
“I saw you collapse,” he said. “That night. Before you hit my porch. You were two streets over. You were swaying.”
Josie’s eyes burned.
_He saw that too?_
“I followed you,” he said. “Kept my distance. When you fell, I was already there.”
5:42pm.
Josie couldn’t breathe.
He stepped closer.
Not touching.
Just close enough that she could smell rain on his shirt.
“Josie,” he said.
Her name.
From his mouth.
It sounded like prayer.
“I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a textbook,” he said. “But God… He told me.”
The room got smaller.
“He told me to watch. To cover. To wait.”
Josie stared at him.
Gray eyes weren’t cold now.
They were burning.
Quiet fire.
“It’s not about the umbrellas,” he said. “It’s not about the tutoring. It’s not even about you being sick.”
5:43pm.
He swallowed.
Once.
“It’s about obedience,” he said. “He said you were mine to cover. Before I knew your name. Before you knew mine.”
Josie’s heart stopped.
Then started again.
Loud.
“Orwell—”
“I’m not professing love,” he said. Fast. Like he needed to clarify. “I don’t know what this is yet.”
He looked down.
Then back up.
“But it feels like love,” he said. “The way God describes it. Patient. Kind. Not keeping record of wrongs. Not delighting in evil.”
5:44pm.
Josie was crying.
She didn’t realize when it started.
Silent tears.
Running down her face.
“Why are you telling me this?” she whispered.
Orwell reached out at 5:45pm.
Didn’t touch her.
Just hovered his hand near her arm.
The iron-against-iron space.
“Because you keep running,” he said. “And I’m tired of watching you run alone.”
The rain got louder.
He dropped his hand.
“Do you believe you’re being led by The Spirit?” he asked again.
This time, Josie didn’t say _I don’t know_.
This time, she looked at the first umbrella.
At the glass of water.
At her clinic file.
At him.
And she whispered, “I think… I think I am now.”
Something in Orwell’s face broke at 5:46pm.
Not his composure.
His walls.
Just a crack.
And he smiled.
Real.
Small.
Like the one in Room B.
But this one stayed.
---
5:46pm. Josie said it. _“I think… I think I am now.”_ And Orwell smiled. Not the look. Not the scan.
Not the human calculator checking her vitals through her pupils. This one was deeper. It started in his gray eyes and dragged something up from his chest.
Something raw. Something _his_.
For half a second, Josie saw it. The boy under the iron. The one who built auditoriums and tracked meds and heard God. The one who was tired.
The one who wanted. Her breath caught at 5:47pm. Then it was gone. He killed it. Casual. Clean. His gaze dropped. Averted. Like he’d just realized the vault was open and slammed it shut.
He studied the floor. Marble. Cold. Safe.
Outside, the rain had started again. Heavier now. It should have been loud. Pounding the windows. Drumming the roof. But the house was too well built.
Concrete and glass and money. The structure swallowed the storm.
All Josie heard was the faint hum of electronics running in the background. The fridge. The AC. The security panel blinking by the door. White noise. Burying the rain. Burying the moment.
The air between them went tense. Thick. Leftovers from the eye contact. From whatever she’d just seen in him. Josie’s chest tightened at 5:48pm. _What was that?_ She wanted to ask. She didn’t.
Orwell moved.
Just like that.
No warning.
No explanation.
He turned and strolled toward the kitchen. Casual. Hands in his pockets. Like the air hadn’t just gone electric. Like he hadn’t just let her see his heart for half a second. Like they hadn’t just been talking about God and covering and _mine_.
Josie followed. Mere habit. Her feet knew his house better than her brain did. She expected water. She expected _Hydrate_. She expected clipboard. She was already bracing for it at 5:49pm. Then she stepped into the kitchen. And stopped dead.
Orwell was at the island. Sleeves already rolled up. Pulling a chopping board from the drawer. He was going to cook. Again. For her. But that wasn’t what stunned her.
By the stove stood a woman. Mid-50s. Wrapper and blouse. Neat. Kind eyes. Josie had never seen her before.
The woman turned and smiled at Josie. Soft. Motherly. “Ah, welcome oh,” she said. Voice warm. “Oga said make I dey around.”
Josie blinked. _Oga._ Orwell didn’t look up from the tomatoes he’d grabbed. “Madam Bi,” he said. Flat. “From the boys’ quarters.”
5:50pm. It clicked. He invited her. Unknown to Josie, he’d called her in ten minutes ago. Because it was raining.
Because it was evening. Because Josie was a girl in his house. Alone. And he wanted her comfortable. Not even God had to tell him that one. He just knew.
Josie stared at Madam Bi. Then at Orwell. Chopping tomatoes like the last four minutes hadn’t just rearranged her chest.
The rain was still falling outside. The house still drowned it out. But Josie heard something else now. The sound of being covered. Again.
---
5:51pm.
Orwell didn’t look at her.
He washed his hands at the sink. Methodical. Soap, water, dry. Like he was prepping for surgery.
Then he moved.
Pot of water on the stove. Flame clicked to life. Yam peeled fast, precise. No wasted motion. His knife work was clean. Cubes hit the water with soft splashes.
Madam Bi just smiled to herself and started wiping the counter. She’d seen this before.
5:52pm.
Another pan. Oil. Heat.
Orwell cracked eggs into a bowl one handed. Three. Four. No shell. He whisked them without looking. Left hand reached for tomatoes, onions, pepper.
Josie stood in the corner by the fridge.
Arms crossed. Then uncrossed. Then crossed again.
The kitchen smelled like home and heat.
She felt like an intruder.
This was domestic. This was _his_. And she was just here, existing in it, after seeing his heart for half a second before he buried it.
5:53pm.
The awkwardness was climbing up her throat.
“I can help,” she blurted.
Her voice cracked. Too loud for the kitchen.
Orwell didn’t even pause.
He slid the chopped tomatoes into the hot oil with a sizzle.
“Sit,” he said.
One word. Flat. Final.
Not unkind. Just Orwell.
Josie opened her mouth. Closed it.
Madam Bi patted the stool beside her. “My dear, come. Let us watch the Oga.”
Josie sat.
Burning.
5:54pm.
He worked like a pro.
Seasoning pinched in. Eggs poured. The sauce folded over itself, yellow and red and steaming. He stirred once, twice. Lid on.
The yam boiled. He tested it with a fork. Drained it.
No clipboard. No _Hydrate_. No scan.
Just a boy cooking.
A boy who heard God and called Madam Bi and now made egg sauce at 5:55pm like the world wasn’t ending.
Josie watched his hands.
Steady. Sure.
Nothing about him said _I just showed you my heart_.
Nothing about him said _I want_.
He plated it at 5:56pm.
Two plates. Yam first. White, hot, steaming. Then the egg sauce. Generous. Glossy. Pepper flecks like confetti.
He set one in front of Madam Bi. One in front of Josie.
Then he got himself water.
Sat across from them.
No prayer. No speech.
Just “Eat.”
Josie stared at the plate at 5:57pm.
Her face was hot.
This was embarrassing.
Sitting here. Being served. By him. After _that_ moment.
She picked up her fork.
Took a bite.
And froze.
It was good.
Really good.
The kind of good that made her chest ache.
Because he cut the yam small, the way she could manage.
Because he _noticed_.
5:58pm.
She ate. Fast. Trying not to look at him.
Madam Bi was humming, pleased.
Josie’s plate was half gone before she realized.
Orwell finished first.
He set his fork down.
Looked at her.
Gray eyes, calm.
“More?” he asked.
Just that.
No teasing. No reference to anything.
Like the last ten minutes hadn’t happened.
Like he hadn’t smiled and shown her the boy under the iron.
Like she hadn’t seen it.
Josie’s fork stopped mid-air at 5:59pm.
She did want more.
Her stomach said yes.
Her pride said no.
Her heart said _he’s pretending that moment didn’t happen and it’s driving me crazy_.
She was embarrassed.
She was mesmerized.
He’d vaulted the moment so cleanly it was like he’d never opened it.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Barely audible.
Orwell stood.
Took her plate.
Added more yam. More egg sauce.
Set it back down.
Like it was normal.
Like he always fed girls he was told to cover.
Like his heart wasn’t just in his eyes three minutes ago.
6:00pm.
Josie looked down at the second helping.
The rain was still buried by the house.
The electronics still hummed.
And Orwell was eating again, quiet.
Covering.
By ignoring.
By feeding.
By pretending.
And somehow that made her want him more.
▪︎▪︎▪︎
