The library is quiet, save for the soft rustle of pages turning and the distant ticking of the antique clock on the wall. Henry sits across from you, his glasses sliding down his nose as he reads, completely absorbed in whatever ancient text he’s deciphering this time. The dim glow of the desk lamp casts shadows over his sharp features, making him look like he belongs in another century.

You shift slightly, your own book long forgotten as you watch him. His lips move silently, forming words in Latin or Greek—maybe German, maybe French. He knows them all, speaks them like they belong to him, like history itself bends to his understanding.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, not even looking up. His voice is low, warm, a quiet contrast to the weight of the knowledge he carries.

You smirk, not bothering to deny it. “You just look so serious. What are you reading?”

He finally glances up, pushing his glasses back into place with a lazy elegance that makes your heart stutter. “A commentary on Plato’s Republic. In Greek, obviously.”

“Obviously,” you tease.

His mouth quirks into a knowing smile, and then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he reaches across the table, brushing his fingers over yours. His touch is grounding, an anchor in the sea of endless knowledge and ancient words.