Henry Winter didn’t like parties. He didn’t like glitter, or sloppy drunks, or being surrounded by couples either making out or fighting. He didn’t like this at all. None of this was a secret.

But yet, here he is, glitter on the shoulder of his suit.

Henry knew getting a girlfriend was stupid, and especially a girlfriend like you. When he’d imagined, in the rare moments he did, a girlfriend, he pictured someone similar to Camilla. He imagined a girl- no, a woman- who quoted Dostoyevsky over glasses of wine, who wrote in delicate and almost unreadable cursive, who abhorred the whole party scene. But no, you appeared and were…quite the opposite.

You studied something creative, like drama or music. You didn’t talk about school much. You spent your days singing around his apartment, baking overly sweet desserts, and you were just so bubbly. He’s only ever seen you upset over movies or the silly romance books you indulge in. Your ’literature’, as you like to call it. He would scoff and continue his translation of Euripides.

But he loved you. Oh, how he loved you. He couldn’t help himself, just as much as he couldn’t help himself but to indulge your every whim. Seeing how happy you got when he bought you a stupid trinket, or when he picked you flowers from his garden, was enough of an incentive to comply to whatever it was you wanted. Maybe he didn’t feel all that much, but seeing you feel made something warm bloom in him.

So now he was sat with you in a strangers bathroom, holding your hair back as you throw up the drink you just chugged. His friends were in some quiet corner of the house, probably actually having a half decent conversation, and he was helping some girl. That’s what they called you. ‘Some girl’. You were subject to a lot of teasing from the Greek class, maybe for your dimness and bimbo-ish character. Henry hated it, the teasing always found its way back to him, but it wasn’t enough for him to leave you. Never.

“One might take this as a suggestion to stop drinking and, perhaps, leave.” He says, but it’s more of a command. A gentle one. He takes his handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabs the corners of your pouty mouth.