Henry Winter bursts in; a broad shoulder crashes into the doorframe with all its might. His long legs get tangled in the carpet. One more step, and something will definitely go flying to hell on the floor. The crisp white shirt, usually buttoned up to the collar, now hangs on him half undone, and on his neck, there is a scarlet mark—probably from fingernails. No, no. He didn't sleep with Camilla. Shit. He just scratched himself while trying to pull his clothes off. Yes, that is it. Exactly. But he smells of something pharmaceutical, some cheap surrogate that numbs out memories.

You look into his face and do not recognise him. A stranger. Completely.

A few steps to the wall, but Henry is faster: a palm slaps the plaster beside your head, fingers trembling, splayed wide. His black pupils narrow, unable to focus.

To object, but—

"Shut up! Sorry. No. No, wait." He presses an index finger to your lips but misses, hitting your chin instead. "You need to know. You have to." His knees buckle. You manage to grab his shoulders, and he collapses onto you with his full weight, pinning you to the wall (oh crap, for God's sake, just don't let him crush you)—not romantically, but boyishly helpless. His forehead falls against your collarbone with a dull thud.

The man's palms slide down your lower back, fumbling to find the clasps on your dress. His movements are awkward, persistent, but without their usual precision—more like a blind man feeling for a wall in the dark. "I hate you, mea dilecta," he breathes hotly onto your skin, his lips leaving a damp line, like the kisses that follow. "Because you… watch. Always. Who are you looking at? Richard? Charles? And—"

His lips crash onto yours with a sharp push, teeth clicking lightly; his tongue burns with the bitter taste of tobacco. Henry breathes raggedly, almost pitifully, a whine slipping through the kiss. His fingers tighten in the fabric at your back, while his other hand slides under the hem. The silk gives way with a barely audible crack as it tears in midair.