Yes, well. I’m sure we will. If I don’t become a puddle and slip down the drain before then…
Being clean—really, deeply clean—for the first time in over a week does marvelous things for my morale. Slipping into one of Samson’s shirts, feeling against my own flesh the places where his shoulders have shouldered, takes me some time to recover from.
His clothing is massive, draping over me like an unflattering tent. The neckline gapes, showing more of my less-impressive shoulders than I’d like, but the most I can do for modesty is latch the three buttons at the V-neck and pull it up so more of my back than my chest is revealed.
Citrus’s curves are nothing to ignore, and after deciding I’d rather die than put my disgusting bra back on along with the underwear I’ve been able to keep somewhat clean by washing it in the evenings and letting dry overnight, I’m praying that this qualifies as decent.
On the one hand, Samson considers it acceptable to offer me his clothes so he can drop his female neighbor’s clothes off at Ines’s to be washed.
On the other, he’s worse of a hermit than I am since necessity forced me to leave my house for work…
It’s safe to say neither of us knows what might be considered socially-acceptable behavior.
Which means he’s relying purely on what he himself deems okay.
Which means…he’s okay with me wearingonlyhis t-shirt?
Oh no.
My jaw clenches, and I stop my frenzied pacing around the tub that takes up the center of the small, tiled room.
Tentative, I touch the top of my head.
He patted my head.
Like I’m a child.
My heart launches itself into my throat as panic hits me hard and fast.
The reasoning behind why strong, beautiful, perfect Samson isn’t a romanceable character is plain and simple: he’s thirty-eight. All the other romance options are in their mid-to-late twenties.
Please, please,pleasedon’t tell me that Samson thinks of me as a poor, displaced little girl who needs a fatherly assist in this new world.
I will vomit.
Then cry a bucket.
Then throw up into that bucket.
And cry some more.
This age gap isbarelyage gapping!
He’s nowhere neartwicemy age, likesomeage gap romances I have accidentally found myself tripping into.
For my mental health, I am choosing to ignore that those romances were only recommended to me because most Samson fanfiction is tagged asage gapand the algorithm has me pegged as a promiscuous lass.
Unable to bear it, I drop to my knees by my bag, fish out my journal, and flip to the relationship page.
Question marks.
Still.
Why?
This whole afternoon and evening hasgotto count as a heart event, and you don’t let someone you have negative hearts with stay in your house. You just don’t.
“Pst,” I whisper at a quest page that confirms a little over half the stone quota has been obtained. And, you know, also that I’ve yet to learn fishing. I’ll get to that someday, I’m sure. If I survive tonight.
