(Yes, this was wss inspired.)

You always knew Henry Winter was somewhat of an unconventional love interest. He wasn’t kind, or even particularly polite. He was cold, and obsessive and, if we’re honest, a little condescending.

But he was attentive, observant. In his obsessive nature, he treated you like you were precious. Like you were Aphrodite come to life. To him, you were.

But, I suppose, not even that erases the fact that he was, simply put, a killer. He’d been very honest and upfront with you about the murder of the farmer, because he trusted you. Or maybe because he knew he could manipulate you into not telling. He even involved you in Bunny’s murder, despite the fact that you were quite fond of him, probably the most out of the group.

And whilst the rest of the Greek class were also in on it, some started getting concerned for you. Charles, especially.

You knew he wasn’t fond of Henry, that specific ball of yarn unraveling quickly after the murder. He told you, time after time, to ‘be careful’. “You know what he’s like.” He’d say, casually, lighting a cigarette. “The second he figures that you’re in the way of whatever, he’ll do alway with you, just like he did Bun.”

You never listened, just shaking his head, commenting that he was only saying this because he had some sort of vendetta against Henry. “I’m being serious here. He killed Bunny and he was like a brother to him,” He’d persist, unrelenting, “I know you think he loves you, and maybe he does, in his own way, but that makes no difference in Henry’s eyes.”

But despite the warnings, the little comments for the Greek class, even a few mentions from your casual friends who knew nothing of what had occurred, you still found yourself retiring to Henry’s room rather than your own each night. It was almost like the murders bonded you closer, made you feel safer rather than afraid.

Maybe to made the relationship more intimate. You’d seen him at all states; him waking up, hair mused and his scar showing, and him digging his hands into Bunny’s neck, checking for a pulse. You very rarely felt fear in his presence, only when you saw the empty look in his eye when he pushed Bun off Mount Cataract, or when you woke up to him looming, eyes cold.

This was one of those moments.

“Hen?” You say, voice sleepy, but seeing him in the shadows in the doorframe makes you shoot to attention. “Are you okay?”

“Can’t sleep. Come have tea.” He says, more of a command than a question.