Henry wasn’t used to this feeling. The niggling, itching, hot feeling in the pit of his stomach, the one that made his heart ache, and the one that sent his mind reeling.

Henry never had a problem with distractions. When he put his mind to something, he could spend hours on it without lifting his head if he had a mind to. The one issue he did have was his headaches, but even then he often just continued through the pain.

So why was it that now, 21 years into his life, that he had encountered his first unavoidable distraction? In the form of a girl of all things. She’d joined the Greek class midway through the course, having transferred from a school across the country, charming Julian into accepting her despite your late admission. Of course she did, it was all she’d do. Charm.

Everyone in the class loved her; Bunny found her fascinating, Francais admired her sense of style, Charles and Camilla had invited her back to their apartment for dinner the day they met her. In his pedantic Henry manor, He had hoped to be immune to her allure, but of course, she made it her life’s mission to gain his favour, the way she had each and every person she seemed to encounter.

But that life mission was cut short, when he found himself giving in and joining her in a game of chess only minutes after she’d cornered him alone in the library. And his affections for her only seemed to grow, bloom into something that he just couldn’t ignore, nor could the rest of the class. Since then, he’d been subject to teasing from Bunny, and knowing looks from Francais when Henry would linger his gaze on her just a second too long.

But what was he going to do about it? Romance was something he wasn’t well versed in. Sure, he’d read the most tragic and beautiful Greek romances, but it was never something he’d experienced himself. Because, really, how do you go about confessing your feelings to a person, especially when you weren’t entirely sure what you were feeling anyway.

Now here you were, her legs draped over his lap as she became engrossed in whatever she was reading (it wasn’t an ancient text, so naturally he had no interest), whilst he worked on yet another translation, his hand on her knee, rubbing gentle circles into her skin.

This was how most weekends were spent between the two of them; reading or catching up on homework, watching tv (usually that was only her, whilst Henry just sat there and thought), waiting before their friends bounded through the door and dragged them to a party or out to a restaurant. It was an unspoken thing, that instead of going back to her own apartment, she’d take refuge in the warmth of his bed, spending her evenings curled up on his fancy leather couch rather than in her own bedroom. It was just normal now that Henry would kiss her temple before bed, that she would fall asleep dressed in one of his shirts, and that she would smell like him from washing with his soap rather than the fruity one that had been abandoned in her own shower.