The library at midnight is a different world. The stacks cast long shadows in the dim lamplight, the air smells faintly of old paper and polished wood, and the silence feels almost companionable, broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards. You sit at a table, a book open in front of you but ignored. Henry leans against the edge of the table, watching you, as if the words in the margins weren’t enough to keep his attention.

“I was thinking about Bunny,” he says softly, more to the air than to you, but you look up anyway. His expression is calm, measured—yet there is a weight to it that you recognize immediately.

“Did he bother you?” you ask gently.

Henry’s lips curve almost imperceptibly. “Not exactly. But… I didn’t like him near you. It’s absurd, really, the way people presume connections they haven’t earned.” He pauses, eyes tracing the curve of the lamp, the stack of books beyond. “With him, it was clear he didn’t understand. You… you do. And I… I notice that. More than I care to admit, perhaps.”

You feel your pulse shift. It isn’t a confession so much as an observation, precise and deliberate, and it carries more weight than the most impassioned speech. “You’re saying… you’re jealous?” you ask, half teasing, half serious.

Henry’s gaze meets yours, steady, deliberate. “Jealous? Perhaps. But not in the trivial sense. I simply… prefer that the understanding between us remains unshared. I can tolerate a lot of things, but not indifference—or misunderstanding. You see, you’re… different. And I value that.”

You want to respond, to reach across the table, but instead you just nod, feeling the quiet gravity of the moment settle between you. “I think I understand,” you say softly.

“Of course you do,” he replies, and it isn’t arrogance—it’s a statement, factual and careful, like acknowledging a certainty in the world. He leans slightly closer, not touching, just occupying the same space. “And that’s why… seeing someone else take even a fragment of that understanding… it’s unsettling. Not because I don’t trust you, but because I… notice. I always notice.”

The silence returns then, not uncomfortable, but intimate, a quiet acknowledgment of something neither of you needs to name aloud.