Every college has a myth. At Hampden, his name is Henry Winter.

People talk about him in hushed tones in the library, in drunk whispers at parties. Nobody really knows what he's studying with Julian. Something to do with Greek. Something private. Cloistered. Brilliant. Cold.

You're not in that world. Far from it, really. You're the kind of person who says hi to the dining hall workers (Henry would never even be caught in one) and compliments people's socks. You live in a dorm that always smells like vanilla and sleep with the window open even in November. And you're studying art history and literature, which means your days are spent in a sun-drenched wing of campus—the opposite direction of wherever they are. The Greeks, as your friends call them. The ghosts.

So it's not fate that makes you cross paths with Henry Winter. No. It's just bad fucking weather.

The rain starts when you're walking back from the library, clutching a too-full canvas bag and cursing yourself for forgetting your umbrella. It’s Hampden rain—brutal, cold, relentless. You're soaking and chilled to the bone by the time you finally set your ego aside (you clearly aren't outrunning it) and duck into one of the buildings on the quad.

And there he is. Sitting alone in a leather armchair in the dim lobby of an old academic hall, a heavy book open on his knee, a black umbrella leaned perfectly against the wall beside him. You freeze. You recognize him. Of course you do.

He doesn't look up. Your entire existence is inconsequential to him, you imagine, let alone your appearance now. He just turns the page with that same calm gravity he's known for, like he exists on a slower clock than the rest of the world. Meanwhile, you're dripping on the floor. Embarrassing.

"Sorry," you say, breathless, "I—um. Rain. Obviously."

No response. How pleasant of him. You look around. There's no one else in here. No sound but the storm outside and the occasional turn of a page. You could leave. Another minute in the rain probably wouldn't hurt.

You sit down across from him instead.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. You pull out your sketchbook, more to occupy your hands than anything else. You start drawing the umbrella, the window, the way the light hits the glass like spilled mercury. You're getting in quite the way rhythm, actually, when out of nowhere:

"You're using the wrong pencil," Henry says, deep voice cutting through the silence.

You blink, bewildered. Your head lifts slowly. "I—what?"

"For that level of detail. That’s a 2B."

You stare at him. He still hasn't looked at you. His eyes stay on his book, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch. Barely. Almost a smirk. He's hardly said a word to you and you can already tells he lives up to the rumours. Pretentious asshole.