Page 9 of Protecting the Nerd
“Panopticon. It’s…” Oh fuck, I’d done it again. People had accused me of always showing off my knowledge, but the frustrating part was that I never realized I did it or how it had come across until afterward. “Never mind.”
“I’d love for you to explain. If you want to.”
He probably said that to make me feel better, but whatever. “A panopticon is a design of an institutional building, like a prison, where you can see the entire building from one central point. Pan is Greek for everything, and opticon refers to seeing, so it literally means all-seeing. The concept was devised by English philosopher and social theorist Jeremy Bentham in the eighteenth century.”
“Interesting. I’ll have to look up some examples.”
If he was faking it—and he had to be—he did a good job of pretending he was interested. I appreciated his effort at not making me feel like crap. I did anyway, but that wasn’t on him.
Time to change the topic. “Hungry? What are you in the mood for?” I forced a light tone as I took out my phone.
“Anything’s fine,” Quillon replied, but I caught a slight hesitation—a momentary crack in his stoic facade.
“Come on, you’ve got to have a preference. Spicy? Savory? Sweet?”
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Spicy. I like food with a kick. But only if you’ll eat it too.”
“Spicy it is, then. I eat everything. No allergies, and there are very few things I dislike. Avocado and mushrooms, that’s it.”
I clicked away at my phone, ordering an array of Thai dishes guaranteed to set our taste buds ablaze, and pocketed my phone. “Food will be here in about an hour. I’m gonna take a shower in the meantime.”
Shit, I only had one bathroom, so he’d have to use it as well. I repressed a sigh. “I’ll put out some towels and stuff for you.”
Quillon pointed at a black weekend bag in the corner of the room that I had somehow overlooked. “I brought everything I need, but thank you.”
“You brought your own towels?”
“I never assume I can use anyone else’s.”
“Whatever you prefer, but it’s no bother. I have plenty and don’t do my own laundry anyway.”
“You have a housekeeper?”
“I have Ania. She cleans, does groceries, cooks a few meals every week, and does my laundry. Without her, I’d be lost.”
“We’ll have to check her background.”
I could argue that Ania was a sixty-three-year-old grandmother who was active in her Russian Orthodox Church, loved watching soap operas, adored her grandkids, and had no clue about what I did, but what was the point? Quillon had a job to do. “Fine.”
With the weight of the day pressing down on my shoulders, I retreated to my bedroom. God, I couldn’t wait for the hot sting of water against my skin. I hovered my hand over the light switch, but darkness felt more fitting, so I walked into the dim room, lit only by the soft glow of the street lamps.
Stripping off my clothes felt like shedding layers of tension. Piece by piece, the stress fell away until I stood naked and vulnerable. I stepped under the hot spray, which was heaven against my cool flesh, and closed my eyes.
After what felt like an eternity, I shut off the water and dried myself with a towel that emitted whiffs of lavender. Ania always put little sachets of dried lavender between the towels and bed linen, an old-fashioned habit I’d grown to love.
Jesus, I was exhausted. Maybe I could lie down for just a moment? I dragged myself to bed, the sheets cool and welcoming, a stark contrast to the lingering warmth of the shower. Lying in the half-dark, I let out a long breath. Solitude. Finally.
A gentle shake on my shoulder yanked me from the depths of sleep. I snapped my eyes open. Quillon was looming over me. “York, the food’s here,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the room.
“Wha—?” The fog of sleep still clouded my mind, but as I shifted under his gaze, a draft of cool air swept across my skin. Oh crap. The sheets had slipped away, leaving me exposed.
“Shit!” I clutched the nearest pillow to cover myself. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as I scrambled to find some semblance of modesty.
“Sorry. I didn’t—” I stammered, my words tripping over themselves in their haste to exit my mouth.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Quillon had already turned his back, granting me the illusion of privacy in a room that suddenly felt too small.
I quickly pulled on a pair of boxers and an old T-shirt, the fabric feeling oddly constricting after the freedom of sleeping in the nude. With Quillon in the house, I’d have to wear pajamas. When I deemed myself decent enough, I cleared my throat, signaling to Quillon that it was safe to turn around. He did so with practiced ease, his eyes skirting my face before resting on my forehead.