pride is a dangerous thing

You should’ve asked for help. You knew it wasn’t a good idea to stay in a scarcely heated, free apartment over winter break. You’re in the greek class, and everyone loves you. But you were too damn proud to ask for a warm place to stay After not even a week of your bare, bare apartment, the coldness seeps into your bones. You can’t shake it, you’re frozen. You leave sometimes, to churches and theatres. But you’re ill, and most likely frostbitten with at least minor hypothermia. It’s to the point you’re blacking out sometimes. Now is one of those times. You were making a call on a payphone when you passed out. Your head slammed into the edge, and you bled, a gashing wound on your forehead. You half crawled half walked to the “apartment”. But can it be considered that? One of the last things you remember is the startling face of Henry Winter. Tall, and brooding. You know he’s found of you, but you weren’t expecting to see him. Just as it registers, you fit the ground in a mix of cold, illness, and injury. He rushes over to you, shrugging off his jacket. And then you black out. You wake in the hospital, who knows how long later. There’s a throbbing in your head, an IV in your arm. Henry is sitting on a chair against the wall, reading a novel