Chapter 4 Octavius #4
The door would just have to wait until tomorrow.
Tonight, she could drag a chair over to keep it shut, because right now I was exhausted, and even thinking about the trek down the cliff was spiking my anxiety.
The path was probably slick and drowning in mud, turning what was already a difficult journey into something straight-up dangerous, and it was starting to look less like a walk and more like a death trap—one that might rival the cottage I was currently standing in.
Almost like she sensed my hesitation—and the very vivid images of my own demise—she stepped a little closer.
“Octavius, why don’t you just stay here until its light enough to navigate the path down?”
I looked at her, not entirely sure I had heard her correctly.
“Look, it’s still storming,” she continued quickly, like she needed to justify it before I could object.
“And I don’t need you slipping down the cliffside and meeting your doom, then having to live with that after you just saved me from my own, so...
I suggest you stay here. With me.” She paused, then added a little too fast, “To sleep that is. Just until morning.”
That actually wasn’t a terrible suggestion, because it meant I could keep an eye on both her and the structure. And more importantly, it meant I could do all of that without being accused of overstepping, because this... this was her idea, not mine.
It had been a long time since I had shared a space like this with anyone, and even longer still since it had been a woman... alone.
I cleared my throat slightly. “Does this place have a spare bedroom?”
“Uh... no,” she said, a little sheepishly.
Of course it didn’t.
“But,” she added quickly, gesturing vaguely toward the other side of the room, “I do have a couch.”
I followed her gesture, taking in what she was generously calling a couch. It was closer to a loveseat and would fit perhaps half of me at best. I looked back at her just in time to catch her doing the same calculation, her gaze flicking from me to the couch and back again.
“Uh, never mind,” she said, her voice shifting as her eyes lingered just a second too long before she looked away. There was a faint flush to her cheeks again, subtle but noticeable. “I mean, I’m smaller, so I can take the couch and you can have the bed. It’s a queen, and—”
“No,” I said, cutting her off, because sure, I could be a prick, but I wasn’t about to take a woman’s bed and make her sleep on the couch.
A couch that, from the look of it, was worn and already halfway soaked through from the leaks.
I glanced around the space again, forcing myself to think beyond the obvious, searching for something even remotely reasonable until it finally clicked.
I looked back at her. “A bathtub?” I offered as she looked at me like I had just suggested something completely absurd. “I can sleep comfortably in a bathtub.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding slowly. “I do have one of those. And best of all, it’s clean!”
That, at least, was reassuring.
“The house might be falling apart,” she continued, glancing around, “but the bathroom is spotless. I needed one place that didn’t feel like it might collapse on me, and besides, what woman doesn’t require a clean and comfortable bathroom to do her...
” She trailed off, clearly realizing she had wandered too far into unnecessary detail.
“...flossing,” she finished with a slightly awkward laugh.
She was oddly endearing, and that realization was definitely inconvenient.
I gave a single nod, choosing not to examine that thought any further. “Perfect,” I said simply, hoping to move past the embarrassment I could feel radiating off her and into the too-small space. Emotional switch off or not, when she felt things strongly, it was almost hard to ignore.
“Well, since I’m hosting you,” she began, “would you like something to eat?”
I paused, because she had just offered me food, which implied she cooked, and given everything else I had seen tonight, I wasn’t entirely confident in that assumption.
“What do you have?” I asked cautiously.
“Well,” she said, glancing toward the kitchen, “the electricity’s out on that side of the cottage, so the microwavable dinners are definitely not happening.”
Microwavable dinners. Why am I not surprised? Though, perhaps that was safer than whatever would happen if she actually attempted to cook something.
“But,” she continued, turning back to me, “I do have chips. And fresh fruit. And since the fridge is probably connected to the same power source that’s currently on the fritz thanks to the storm, it’s all going to go bad soon, so we might as well eat it so I don’t feel like I wasted my money.”
I studied her for a moment, taking in the sincerity in her expression, and decided, for once, not to comment on the state of her kitchen or her electrical situation. She didn’t need another lecture from me tonight, especially when she was trying to do something nice.
I cleared my throat, forcing something that resembled a polite smile, though for once, I wasn’t entirely sure it was fake. “Chips and fruit sound great,” I replied.
She smiled. “Chips and fruit it is.”