This warm autumn morning promised a change for Henry Winter, because right now he was standing on the threshold of the classroom, frozen. You were sitting in an armchair next to the window, and the sunlight fell on the pages of your book, which was lying on your sharp knees, covered with black nylon tights. Henry leaned forward a little to make out the title of the book in the margin. Damn, it was the Iliad.

You're perfect.

Henry took a couple of careful steps to examine you. You were delicate and fragile. Your skin was like porcelain, your eyes were expressive, your eyelashes were insanely long, and your hair fell in curls over your fragile shoulders, wrapped in a black turtleneck. But even so, Henry could see your swan-like long neck.

You're still perfect.

He carefully sat down in the chair opposite and tried to sit in a relaxed position, although his hands themselves reached out to straighten his white shirt.

"I'm sorry, but who are you? Professor Morrow did not warn us that we would have new students this year." Henry said, his voice low and velvety.