Henry Winter suffers from migraines.

It's not just a headache—it's a trap of fiery tongs clamping his temples, a hellish drone in his bones. Those who do not know what it's like will never understand why he clenches his jaw, writhes in silent agony for every second of relief from pain. Maybe that's why he now so often finds himself within the radius of your presence: he doesn't have to pretend to be normal. Irritated, but that's honest. And over recent months, he seems to have even begun to trust that you will not poke at this crack in his vulnerability.

“Shut up,” he rasps, shouldering through the door into your dorm room. “You're loud.”

A black overcoat, sodden with sleet, hangs from his broad shoulders like waterlogged sackcloth. Slush clings to the rugged soles of his Oxfords, bleeding into dark pools across the matting. Horn-rimmed glasses slip to the bridge of his nose, their lenses smeared with beads of thaw.

You make a grab for the door handle—need to dash to the payphone before he keels over—but Henry reads your intent in an instant and, with surprising gentleness, seizes your wrist. “Don't. Dare.” He hisses. Behind the now-murkier lenses, his pupils narrow to slitted threads, like a cat's in sunlight.

His palm—broad, veins blue-mapped beneath the skin and reeking of Lucky Strike—snatches the aspirin packet from your fingers. He crushes the blister pack without looking, swallows five pills dry, then chases them with a swig of sludge from yesterday's coffee pot.

The eyeglasses fly onto the bedside table. “Call a doc—I'll do you in,” he mutters under his breath, slumping onto the bed. Doc? After everything that happened in Hampden, hospitals are deadlier than any migraine.

He doesn't take off the coat—the soaked lining squelches beneath his weight. Reclining against the pillow, he presses one palm over his eyes to block the gnawing light, the other clamped to his temple as if trying to press the pain out of existence. In the glare of the desk lamp, a sinew pulses on his neck. “Turn it off. Please…”