Chapter 5
HENRY
Wexley students never left all at once. They drifted, packed bags too slowly, asked one last question they didn’t need answered—something vague but designed to be remembered.
I tolerated it.
Barely.
The lecture hall still smelled faintly of expensive detergent and something citrusy, the kind of scent that lingered on bodies dressed too fucking well for how little they paid attention.
I shut my laptop with a decisive click and began stacking my notes, aligning the edges without really thinking about it.
I gathered my jacket from the back of the chair and paused.
I wasn’t in a hurry to get back to my office, which was unusual.
The space would be empty, and up until a week ago, I fucking preferred it that way. Everything about it was unchanged, yet it felt different when Archie wasn’t there.
Assistantship or not, he had his own schedule. His own lectures. His own obligations pulling him across campus on a rhythm that didn’t include me. Most days, the university scattered him elsewhere.
Christ.
It irritated me.
In more ways than one.
I didn’t do this. I didn’t let a twenty-something grad student rearrange my pulse just by existing in the right way.
I didn’t let anyone rearrange anything. That was the point.
And yet my mind kept returning to the moment in the admin office and the way Archie had stood there with his folder bent under his grip, trying to make his body look casual while his nervous system seemed to scream.
He’d been braced for impact, and I’d seen that kind of posture before.
On men sitting across from me in interview rooms, hands cuffed, faces calm in a way that didn’t come from peace.
On women whose stories had been cut into clinical language because that was the only way anyone would listen.
On teenagers who’d learned early that survival was mostly a matter of predicting who would hurt them and when.
The trauma wasn’t what made Archie unique.
Everyone had trauma.
It was the way he refused to soften himself into a digestible version of it.
My jaw tightened, fingers curling around the stack of papers as if I needed the pressure. Control wasn’t just a mood. Not for me. It was a structure I maintained daily, and letting one student step into my orbit shouldn’t have been enough to make the foundation creak.
But it had.
I slid my notes into my bag and turned off the projector, the screen rolling itself back into the ceiling with a low mechanical hum. The sound echoed in the now-empty room.
The door at the back of the lecture hall opened. “Henry.”
Goddamn it.
I exhaled slowly and finished zipping my bag before facing him, letting the quiet stretch a beat too long before clearing my throat.
“Dean Randolph.”
His smile was fake as fuck, polished and well-practiced—the kind worn by men who cared too much about being liked. Dark, expensive fabric moved with him as he stepped farther into the room, the suit effortlessly unremarkable and tailored within an inch of its life.
Something in his demeanor tugged at me, like a scab you couldn’t stop picking at. The polish, the cultivated ease, the falsified kindness—it all reminded me of my father.
Which was likely why I hated him.
He stepped farther into the room and stopped short of meeting me halfway, planting himself like the space should do the rest of the work for him. One hand lifted, fingers turning his ring deliberately—the university crest catching the light.
He cocked his head. “I caught the end of your lecture. Compelling, as always.”
“I don’t tailor my material for drop-ins.”
“No, of course not. I wouldn’t expect you to.” He gestured vaguely toward the rows of seats. “Trauma and procedural adaptation. You make even the bleak topics sound… inevitable.”
“That’s because they are.”
“Hm.” He pressed his palm against his jacket, smoothing the already pressed fabric. “I wanted a word before your afternoon meetings.”
Of course he did.
Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I began walking toward the exit. When it was clear I wasn’t going to stop, he fell into step beside me.
We moved through the hall together, the echo of our shoes sharp against the stone. I didn’t bother to slow my pace. If Randolph wanted my time, he could keep up.
“I hear your assistant has settled in.”
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. “If you’re fishing for reassurance, save it. HR cleared him. His access is approved.”
“Oh, I’m not concerned about procedure. That is Judith’s favorite sport.”
He paused as if he expected me to laugh.
“Still.” He cleared his throat. “There were a number of applicants for the position. Strong ones. Some with more… conventional qualifications.”
I stopped walking.
Randolph took one more step before realizing I hadn’t followed. He turned, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise.
“Go on,” I said.
“I’m looking out for you, Henry. Ashford men have to stick together.”
Ashford.
There was nothing in it worth remembering—no pride, no nostalgia. Just rot.
Randolph had graduated two decades before me and was acting like we belonged to the same club. Like surviving that place made us allies.
It didn’t.
If anything, it made me want him further the fuck away.
“Several applicants had prior assistantship experience, Henry. Better institutional alignment.”
“Alignment with what?”
“With expectations,” he said smoothly. “The role is competitive. Naturally, people notice when someone unexpected is chosen.”
Unexpected.
The word dragged across my nerves.
“Archibald Quinn wasn’t chosen at random.” I ground out.
“I didn’t suggest he was.”
“You implied it, did you not?”
Randolph held up his hands. “I’m simply saying—Wexley is an ecosystem. Choices ripple.”
I stepped closer, close enough that he had to tilt his head back slightly to maintain eye contact. Close enough that he could feel my breath against his overly bronzed cheeks.
“You don’t get to reduce my decisions to optics,” I said quietly. “If you want to discuss funding, scheduling, or the absurdity of your lecture quotas, I’m available. If you want to second-guess my judgment—”
“I want to understand it,” Randolph cut in, smiling. “That’s all.”
Bullshit.
“You want to justify interference.”
His smile faded, just a fraction.
“Mr. Quinn demonstrated analytical restraint, discretion, and an understanding of the material that goes beyond regurgitation. If you’re disappointed he doesn’t fit your preferred narrative of pedigree, that’s not my concern.”
Like hell I was going to stand here and let him question my judgment—let alone reduce Archibald to a miscalculation.
My rabbit had more intelligence in his fucking pinky finger than Dean Randolph had in his entire, over-polished body, and the fact that this man thought lineage counted as competence told me everything I needed to know.
“Very well.” Randolph gave a small, measured nod. “I’ll trust your instincts—for now.”
He stepped back, putting space between us. “Just remember, Henry. Wexley prides itself on fairness.”
Fairness.
For fuck’s sake.
That word always showed up when people wanted to feel better about decisions they’d already made.
He turned before I could answer. His shoulders loosened as soon as he put his back to me. The confidence he’d been borrowing returned in increments.
When he was out of my sight, the restraint I’d been holding tightened instead of easing, coiling under my skin.
I turned and took the stairs two at a time, movement sharp and deliberate, anger settling into something colder as my pulse caught up.
If Randolph thought this conversation was finished, he was mistaken.
I didn’t forget men who tried to touch what I’d chosen.
Or question what I intended to keep.
By the time I reached my office door, my blood buzzed with irritation.
The key slid into the lock with a muted scrape, familiar resistance giving way as I turned it and stepped inside.
Crossing to the desk, I set my bag down and loosened my tie, rolling my shoulders as if I could shake Randolph and his bullshit out of my joints.
I reached for the slim stack of papers I’d given Archibald to review that morning.
A cheap, black pen sat haphazardly beside the stack.
One end bore faint teeth marks, the plastic roughened where someone had worried it absentmindedly while thinking.
I picked it up without meaning to, turning it once between my fingers.
Curiosity drew it closer, my thumb settling over the indentation before I caught myself.
Rabbit.
For a beat, I brought it to my mouth and set it against my lower lip—exactly where his teeth had been.
Exhaling through my nose, I put the pen in my pocket like it belonged to me now.
Like he belonged to me.
I noticed the water bottle a second later—hard plastic, scuffed to a dull blue.
Its surface was cluttered with stickers that had outlived their usefulness—one faded Swedish flag, one bookstore spine logo peeling at the corner like it had been picked at endlessly.
I stared at it, jaw tightening.
Of course he’d left it.
I moved it closer to the edge of the desk, where it couldn’t be missed, then twisted the cap shut with more force than necessary. The sound snapped through the room.
That’s when I saw it—a flash of white at the edge of my vision.
A single, tri-folded piece of paper sat diagonally across my desk, weighed down by my stapler.
Annoyance burned hot through my bloodstream.
I kept my office locked for a reason. I didn’t like people messing with my shit, and I certainly didn’t like receiving letters when something could’ve been a fucking email. I didn’t want to interact with anybody I didn’t have to.
Setting the stapler aside, I unfolded the paper and smoothed it flat against the desk.
My spine went rigid against the back of my chair, jaw ticking.
Some fires don’t stay buried.
My thumb pressed harder into the edge of the paper, just enough to crease it.
…Shit.