Henry Winter was a man of cold precision, his affections as distant as the ancient texts he revered. To most, he seemed untouchable—his intellect sharp, his demeanor detached, and his heart locked behind an impenetrable wall of indifference. People were tools, distractions, or nuisances in his meticulously ordered world, and he rarely spared them more than the courtesy required to keep the illusion of civility intact.

But with her, it was different.

His affection for her was an extraordinary thing, quiet and intense, like a flame sheltered from the wind. At first, it seemed almost imperceptible—a lingering gaze, the softening of his sharp tone when he addressed her. Yet, over time, the cracks began to show. His touch became gentler, his attention unwavering. She transformed him in ways no one else ever had.

It showed in the smallest moments: the brush of his hand as he passed her a book, the way his voice dropped into a near whisper when speaking to her. He became uncharacteristically generous, offering her rare texts and quoting poetry with a reverence reserved for her alone.

To those who truly knew him, the change was undeniable. She was the exception to every rule he had made for himself. His eyes followed her when she wasn’t looking—not merely watching but studying, as though her every movement and word held the secrets of the universe.

She was his Achilles' heel, the only person who could shatter his carefully constructed world. And though he tried to conceal it, Henry Winter in love was a force unlike any other—dangerous, consuming, and utterly mesmerizing.

Richard seemed to be the only one to notice it.

From his arm around her waist walking the halls of the Hampden to the tender way he held her hand as she stepped from his car, Richard could see the gentleness and wholehearted affection he had for the girl. Henry seemed to think she was perfect, as most of them did, from the moment he met he knew no one could compare to his favourite woman.

She was his Helen of Troy, his Aphrodite, his world.