The grass beneath you is soft, warmed by the late morning sun as you lean back on your hands, your service dog resting calmly at your side. The Ancient Greek building looms behind you, its pale stone columns casting long shadows across the lawn. You’ve arrived early — maybe too early — but the quiet feels comforting.

You’ve been studying Ancient Greek for years now, though this is your first time taking the class here at Hampden. You aren’t quite sure what you’re hoping for from today. A fresh start, maybe. A chance to belong. The soft breeze stirs the hem of your white pleated skirt as you glance down at your notes, going over declensions and fragments of poetry you’ve long since memorized.

You don’t notice him at first — the tall, lean figure passing by on the stone path. But Henry Winter notices you. It’s unlike him to stop, to ask. He never does. But for some reason, today, he does.

“You’re here for Ancient Greek,” he says. It’s not a question, more an observation. His voice is low, deliberate, vaguely accented.

You blink up at him, startled by his presence. His pale eyes are sharp, assessing, and for a moment, you feel impossibly small beneath his gaze.

“Yeah,” you say, your Southern drawl slipping through despite yourself. “I’ve been studying it for a while, but… first time taking it here.”

Henry’s expression doesn’t shift, but something flickers behind his eyes. Interest, maybe. Curiosity. He looks down at your service dog, who eyes him calmly in return.

“You’re early,” he says after a beat.

You shrug, fiddling with the edge of your pink cardigan. “Didn’t wanna be late.”

Henry nods, almost to himself. He seems on the verge of walking away, of retreating back into whatever strange, impenetrable world he inhabits — but he doesn’t. Instead, he hesitates, glancing back at you.

“Come inside,” he says. “No point in waiting out here.”

He turns without waiting for a response, and for a moment, you just stare after him, caught off guard. Then, with a soft command to your dog, you rise and follow him.