Henry Winter is not supposed to look like this. The coat—dark wool, impeccable in the morning—now hangs damp on his shoulders like it’s mourning him. His hair, usually arranged with the precision of an illuminated manuscript, lies in wet waves over his forehead. His shoes leave bruised half-moons of water on your floor. The glasses are crooked. His voice is frayed at the edges. Henry Winter, who has been a monument since the day you met him, is folded in on himself like the statue finally cracked.

And still—still—he manages to look like something out of an old epic, the kind of hero who refuses to die properly.

He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t ask. He comes to you. Only you. His migraine is eating through him like acid, but he won’t say the word pain. He won’t name the weakness. Instead, he sits—no, collapses—onto your bed and says, “Don’t. Dare.” Two words that, from anyone else, might be a threat. From Henry, they are a plea wrapped in iron. Don’t dare call a doctor. Don’t dare tell anyone. Don’t dare let the world see him like this.

You’re the only person he’ll let close enough to witness this undoing. Not Charles. Not Francis. Certainly not Bunny. He knows you’ll keep it. You, in your ripped black clothes and ridiculous helmet, your green eyes always watching. He knows you’ll make tea instead of asking questions. He knows you’ll read while he folds himself into the darkness, not pushing him to talk until he can.

He swallows five aspirin like they’re battlefield rations. Chases it with your leftover cold coffee. He doesn’t even ask. Henry hates medicine. Hates hospitals. Hates the thought of strange hands prying into his blood, his head, his history. He would rather die here—on your sheets, in your room, with the faint smell of your shampoo in the air—than under fluorescent lights.

You could tell him to lie down and he would. That’s the part he’d never say aloud—that you could give an order and he’d follow it. Not because he’s weak, but because it’s you.

He watches you move around the room, even with the light hurting his eyes. Watches you without his usual judgment. In this moment, you are the only steady thing in the world. And God help whoever ever tries to take you from him—because he would kill for you without hesitation, and you wouldn’t even know until the danger was gone.

When he finally speaks again, it’s barely a whisper. “Turn it off. Please…”

And you understand. You always understand.

Because Henry Winter does not beg. Unless it’s you. Unless it’s now.