Chapter 4
ARCHIE
Hargrove’s admin office smelled like wood cleaner and Rhys’s closet. There was too much oak and not enough lighting, like someone had designed it specifically to make you feel bad for breathing.
Behind the front desk, a woman looked up at me and pursed her lips in a way that made my palms sweat more instead of less. She had unmistakable horror-movie grandma energy.
Her auburn hair was smoothed back into a bun at the nape of her neck, tight enough that it looked like it might hurt if she frowned any harder.
Her nameplate read Judith, and based on the scowl she was wearing, she was already tired of me.
“Name?”
“Archibald Quinn. Professor Rothwell’s TA.”
The skin on the sides of her neck tightened with the impatient sound she made as she tapped one long fingernail against her keyboard.
Narrow eyes flicked from the screen to my face and back again.
“He doesn’t usually have one.”
“Yes, Ma’am. I’m aware.”
That earned me the smallest pause, her attention sharpening, like I’d just stepped half an inch out of whatever box she’d sorted me into.
Her gaze dropped deliberately to the access card clipped to my bag.
My stomach dipped. The plastic suddenly felt like a stamp that said I’d been allowed in somewhere I didn’t deserve. For a second, I worried she’d call security and have them escort me back to whatever scholarship program had misplaced me.
My fingers tightened around the folder I held. The paper creased under my thumb with a soft, ugly bend.
“I just received my badge from HR,” I said. “I was told to report here and turn in my paperwork.”
Judith’s mouth did something that might’ve been a smile if she’d ever practiced having one. “Hm.”
I shifted my weight, then caught myself and forced my shoulders down, dragging a slow breath in through my nose while I tried to make my body look casual.
It only made me feel like I was glitching.
“Is there a problem?”
That. Voice.
I recognized it now, which felt like its own problem considering I’d spent two days last week after the interview replaying the exact cadence of it in my head and then lying to Rhys like I hadn’t.
The tone wasn’t even loud, but it didn't need to be. It cut clean through the air.
“Professor Rothwell.” Judith straightened instantly. “I was just clarifying the procedure.”
Henry stepped into my peripheral vision, his shoulder brushing mine. I sucked in a breath, rushing to memorize the feel of him against me while pretending to be unaffected.
It was barely a touch—barely anything at all. Still, some embarrassing, ancient part of me went quiet for him.
“If you have concerns about my assistant, you can bring them to me.”
Judith nodded. “Of course.”
“Archibald completed his onboarding with HR this morning. His access was approved. His paperwork is complete.”
Hell.
I’d just come from HR. It was barely 8AM, and somehow, he was already ahead of me. Not just aware of my day but inside of it, moving pieces around before I even knew they needed moving.
“If something were missing, it would have been flagged before he reached your desk.”
Judith’s smile tightened. “Naturally, Professor.”
Henry’s gaze dropped, catching on the way the stupid folder bent under my grip.
“You’re holding that too tightly.”
My fingers loosened.
The pressure left all at once. I felt it in my hand immediately, that sharp, almost embarrassing relief as the tension gave way.
The folder slipped from my grip just as Henry took it from me and set it on the counter in front of Judith, his fingers brushing mine for half a second longer than necessary—or maybe I just noticed it more.
“Come on,” Henry said, already turning.
I followed without thinking, the door swinging shut behind us with a final click that left this weird, empty drop in my chest.
The lobby opened around us, but it didn’t feel as big anymore now that he was moving through it.
He made space rearrange itself around him, and he made me want to rearrange with it.
Henry took the stairs two at a time. I kept pace until we were standing outside his office. The door was slightly ajar, lights already on. Over his shoulder, I spotted his jacket draped over the back of his chair and a mug resting at the corner of his desk.
It was a different mug than the one he’d had during our interview, and I wondered if he was one of those men who couldn’t be bothered to use a travel mug. He seemed the type—like the universe respected him enough that he could walk around with a full mug of coffee and no lid.
I bet he drinks it black.
Henry crossed the room without looking back, his sleeve shifting just enough to expose the line of his wrist, veins sharp under the skin before the fabric settled again.
I stayed just inside the doorway, shoulders tight, not realizing my breathing had gone shallow again until it was already too late to fix it without it looking obvious.
Henry’s eyes found me. “Breathe.”
I considered ignoring him, just to prove I could, but my lungs gave out first, dragging in air too fast before I could smooth it into something normal.
My shoulders eased.
“Good.”
My stomach dropped and flipped at the same time, fast enough to make me lightheaded for a second, which was horrifying, because it was one word and my body had no business reacting to it like that.
Rhys would destroy me for this.
Literally ruin my life.
Henry moved behind his desk and gestured to the space across from him. “Sit.”
I nearly tripped over myself to obey him.
The chair was the same one from the interview—worn leather and softened edges. I set my bag on the floor and lowered myself into it carefully, stopping just short of leaning back.
Henry watched me.
I kept my face still, even though I could feel myself slipping in small ways—too aware of my hands, my posture, and the way my breathing wasn’t lining up right.
“You rub your sleeve when you’re nervous or adjust your glasses. I noticed during your interview.”
My fingers twitched against my thigh.
Of course he’d taken inventory while I was busy trying not to combust in his doorway.
“I’d, uh, make a terrible poker player.”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “You’re human, Archibald, and I don’t expect you to pretend otherwise. Your nervousness is rather… charming.”
Charming.
It wasn’t a word I should’ve been holding onto, but I found myself gripping it anyway.
Pathetic, actually. One compliment and I was ready to laminate it.
“I don’t think anyone has ever described anxiety as charming before.”
“Most people confuse feeling something with failing.”
“And you?” The question slipped out before I could stop it. “I mean—do you—”
“React?” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Of course.”
Oh.
If that was human on him, then whatever I was doing barely counted.
Henry sat. “My emotions aren’t absent, Archibald. They’re just well managed.”
“Doesn’t that get lonely?”
His lips pressed together. “Loneliness is preferable to losing control.”
“Is it, though?”
Because it wasn’t theoretical. It wasn’t some abstract trade-off you could weigh neatly in your head. I’d seen what loneliness did when it stayed too long—how it carved everything down until there was nothing left but routine and walls and rules that kept shrinking.
“I don’t think control actually saves you from it,” I said. “From loneliness or fear.”
Something shifted behind his eyes. “You’re arguing with me.”
Oh.
…Oh, shit.
“I mean—you asked,” I muttered, heat creeping up the back of my neck.
His mouth curved then. “Some might say that’s a dangerous opinion.”
“You still answered.”
He let out a quiet breath, the edge of a laugh catching in it.
“There it is,” he murmured.
“There’s… what?”
“You freeze when you’re unsure. But when you decide to move…” He looked at me then, head cocked and mouth thin, “…you bite.”
Heat pulled low in my stomach.
“Rabbit.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Skittish. Alert. Ready to bolt.” His fingers tapped once against his desk. “Until you’re not.”
I didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered.
Which was probably the point.
And I… didn’t hate it.
I hated that I didn’t hate it. There was a difference. Technically.
“All right.” He reached for a legal pad and flipped it open. “You didn’t survive the admin office just to sit there and spiral.”
“Who said I was spiraling?”
His brow lifted, that almost-smile threatening again. “Sit back,” he said. “You’re here to work.”
I obeyed, this time with marginally more dignity. I hated that I was still grinning a little.
“Your assistantship isn’t ceremonial. I don’t need someone to fetch coffee or alphabetize footnotes.”
“I can alphabetize if you—”
“That won’t be necessary. I need someone who can think.”
My stomach clenched.
“You’ll help manage my correspondence, vet sources, and cross-reference archival material. There’s a backlog I’ve been meaning to hand off.”
I nodded.
I could do that. Easy.
“You’ll also be assisting with my next manuscript.”
I’m sorry… what?
“Your… book?”
“Yes.”
I stared at him, then dragged a breath into my lungs and held it there a second too long. “I thought assistants usually just graded papers and answered emails.”
“They usually do. Which is why most of them are interchangeable.”
Oh.
My mouth went dry, and my lips parted. I snapped them shut before I made a sound that would definitely embarrass me.
Act normal. Act normal. Act normal.
“You’ll be working directly with primary material. Draft reviews. Structural feedback. It’s research heavy. You’ll be dealing directly with people’s lives.”
“That’s—” I cleared my throat. “I guess I assumed I’d quietly exist in your periphery and try not to ruin anything.”
“Rabbit, if I wanted quiet, I wouldn’t have hired you.”
Christ. That escalated quickly.
I shifted once in my seat, fingers curling around nothing as I tried to appear as unaffected as possible.
“This book,” I said carefully. “It’s not… theoretical, right?”
His gaze flicked up.
“You’re not just cataloging symptoms. You’re looking at what happens to people after. When the worst part is technically over.”
“That’s a fair assessment.”
“So it’s…” I exhaled. “A study of aftermath.”
“With an emphasis on consequence.”
If there were an appendix on how a brain learned to live with fear, mine would qualify.
My last name wasn't exactly private knowledge.
Anyone with time and curiosity could pull up the headlines.
Was that why he’d chosen me?
Had he read them?
Had he seen my name in old articles and decided my damage made me useful?
The thought should’ve made me angry. It did. It also made something else in me lean closer.
“Why the shift?” I blurted. “You started with a memoir. Why move away from your own experiences?”
“My life was only an example. It’s not the whole point.”
For the first time since I’d sat down, Henry leaned back fully in his chair. The column of his throat dipped with the hum he made.
“People fixate on the origin story. The first injury, the first loss. But pain itself is universal, Archibald. As unpleasant as it is to admit, my story isn’t unique. What is unique are the variations in response, but even those fall within a range.”
“Structure,” I mumbled. “You’re studying structure. Not suffering.”
“That is why I chose you.”
I fought the urge to fidget under his stare—his praise.
“You’re sure? I mean—I know how to read, obviously, but this is… heavy. And I’m not exactly—”
“Rabbit.”
I clamped my mouth shut.
“The essay you included with your application is proof that you can do this, and if anyone in this building decides to make you feel as though you didn’t earn that badge clipped to your bag, you tell me.”
It wasn’t the words. No. It was the way he said them—like he’d already decided I was worth defending.
Like my doubt was an inconvenience he intended to remove.
“Don’t overthink it, Archibald.”
“I’m totally not,” I lied.
His mouth twitched. “Let’s get to work then.”