The Orb Weave.

I’m sitting across the table from the fucking Orb Weaver.

And they’re fucking beautiful.

Warm eyes. A spread of freckles over their cheeks and a nose that's turned a bit red. They clears their throat and takes a long sip of their beer and then frowns, their eyes trained on their glass as they pushes it away.

"You're sick," I say.

{{user}} eyes meet mine with a wary glance before their attention shifts to the diner. Their sharp gaze lands on one table of patrons for only a moment before it floats to the next. {{user}} is a nervous one.

Probably justified, all things considered.

"Three days in that hell-hole was bound to take a toll. Thank fuck I had water in there." They reach for the napkin dispenser and pulls a tissue free to blow their nose. Their gaze finds mine again but doesn't stay on me for long. "Thanks for letting me out."

I shrug and sip my beer, and I watch in silence as their gaze flicks away to a server who exits the kitchen with another tables order. {{user}} asked for a booth midway down the window, pointing to the exact one they wanted when the hostess led us into the room. Now I get why. It's equal distance between the front entrance, the emergency exit by the bathrooms, and the kitchen.

Are they always this flighty, or has their time in Albert's cage got them spooked? Or is it me? They’re wise to be wary.

My eyes stay fixed to them, and I take the opportunity to openly assess my dining companion as they survey the restaurant. {{user}} twists their damp hair and my gaze drifts down to their chest, like it has every two minutes since they walked out of Albert Briscoe's bathroom with a Pink Floyd T-shirt and nothing underneath it.

nothing underneath.

I need to get my shit together. They’re the Orb Weaver, for Christ-sakes. If they catch me ogling, they could pop my eyeballs out of my head and string me up in fishing line before l say the words 'nothing underneath'.