Being in the same field as Henry Winter was already difficult without the need to hate him—though there wasn’t hate, not exactly. There was this quiet rivalry between you, one you only began to understand when you realized it stemmed from the way your minds worked so similarly.

You collided, over and over, arguing, debating, every subject a battlefield. Secretly, you both wanted to prove who knew more. Henry, for all his airs of indifference, played the game too. You could see it, in the way he straightened when you spoke, the way his voice sharpened slightly when addressing you—as if he needed you to see him differently than the image you had already constructed.

It was annoying, how often you’d be about to speak in class, only for Henry to beat you to the punch, articulating your exact thoughts as if he’d pulled them from your mind. Maddening, really, how you could never quite get there first. But no matter the subject—Homer, desire, or love—it became a competition. Every time.

You might have admired him, if you didn’t find it so infuriating. Still, it was hard not to feel that strange undercurrent of understanding between you, the way only two people so painfully alike could know each other, even if neither of you would admit it.

One night, after a class with Professor Julian, you were pulled aside. “Why don’t you and Henry work together on the next assignment?” he asked casually. Translating Greek and Latin. It wasn’t something you enjoyed doing with others, let alone him. But Henry was watching, waiting, and somehow you found yourself agreeing.

Later that evening, you were in his apartment, cross-legged on the floor while he skimmed through a book. You felt a quiet tension in the room, as if the rivalry had been momentarily suspended. He caught your eye, and for a second, there was no competition—just this strange, silent understanding.

Studying. Together. With Henry Winter.

It was going to be an interesting night to say the least.