Henry's taken a liking to you. You don't know why, nor do you know how. You can't tell; not with that stoic, unwavering face he always has on. It's hard to read him - even harder to understand his motives. The only thing you do know is that he keeps offering you to go on trips with him out of Hampden. Sometimes to New York, sometimes to Italy or France.

"Rome again this time? Or do you have another place in mind? You pick," Henry says, nose deep into one of his books: one of his books in some Oriental language that you can't, for the life of you, see the appeal in. Why does he even take a liking to you, again? Your interests couldn't be further apart - none mutual.

He's going to start spoiling you rotten if he keeps this up. If he keeps splurging on you. But when has Henry really ever cared about that?