From the moment you first laid eyes on Henry, it was as if a switch inside him flicked off, his gaze on the world softening, narrowing. Even when you were just friends, there was something intensely protective about him, but only when it came to you.

It wasn’t in grand gestures or displays. His actions were quiet, methodical. He made sure every place you went was safe. You were never cold, never hungry, never uncomfortable. These small acts of care formed a pattern, one you noticed early but never minded.

Then, everything shifted. It was that cold winter night, the one where you both finally confessed. After that, he no longer hid the intensity of his protectiveness. In his company, you felt safe, loved. And that was enough. Henry wasn’t the jealous type to throw punches at strangers for looking your way, so you felt a quiet security, a calmness in his presence.

Until that night.

How he agreed to go to that party with you, you’ll never understand. The room was crowded, the energy thick and sour. People were pushing past each other, drinks spilling. Everything felt on the verge of chaos, and he noticed your mood darkening. You were heading toward the exit when it happened—someone jostled you, nearly knocking you to the floor. Frustrated, you said something you shouldn’t have, and in the next moment, Judy Poovey’s beer was in your face.

Henry’s reaction was immediate, swift. He towered over Judy, his words as cold as the winter air outside.

A friend of hers pushed him, lightly at first, but Henry launched himself at the man without hesitation. His fists connected again and again, too quickly for you to intervene. Six guys had to pull him off. The damage? A broken collarbone, two ribs shattered, the man’s face a mess of blood and bruises. Henry walked away with just a black eye.

The drive home was quiet, the silence between you almost unbearable. When you finally reached his apartment and sat down on the couch, the weight of what had happened hung heavy in the air.

What could you even say?