Chapter 7
HENRY
Archibald had chosen a seat in the front row.
I noticed him the second I stepped behind the podium, and once I did, the rest of the room lost its shape.
Students shifted in their seats and dug through bags, but all of it faded beneath the quiet fact of him sitting so close.
His notebook lay open against the desk, pen resting against his bottom lip.
A piece of dark hair had fallen forward near his temple, catching the edge of his glasses every time he moved.
Having Archibald in the room altered the geometry of my attention.
No.
It was worse than that.
It narrowed it.
Between slides and case examples, my focus kept drifting back to him—to the slight lean of his body when something caught hold of him and the infuriating little scrunch of his nose when he concentrated too hard.
My little rabbit.
He didn’t need to be there. His assistantship didn’t require it, and God knew a graduate student with his workload had better uses for an hour of free time.
He’d chosen me anyway.
He’d chose to sit five fucking feet away from me with that intent, open look on his face, like whatever came out of my mouth was worth his full attention.
Goddamnit.
I had never been a man who craved attention.
The public version of me might have, the one built out of interviews and book tours, but that man had always been fiction. Archie’s attention, though… it was something else. I wanted it in a way that made no fucking sense.
I memorized every small movement he made—every shift, every blink that pulled his attention away from me. The awareness had settled so deep beneath my skin it refused to leave.
Good.
I liked knowing exactly where he was.
By the time the lecture wound down, I was aware of the rest of the room again… though only in the most technical sense. Slides advanced, and words came out of my mouth, but fuck if I knew what I was even saying.
Clearing my throat, I closed the file on the podium monitor and let my gaze drift across the room without really seeing anyone.
“Read the case notes before Thursday,” I said. “We’ll start there.”
A few students straightened as if they expected more. I didn’t bother asking for questions. If anyone had one badly enough, they could send a fucking email.
Chairs scraped back as the room dissolved into movement. Laptops clicked shut. Bags zipped.
Archibald stood with the rest.
I watched as he slid his notebook into his bag and pushed his glasses higher on his nose. That loose strand of hair still brushed the frame near his temple. He tucked it back absently and turned toward the aisle as the students around him began to filter toward the doors.
He paused as he passed the podium, biting down on his lip. I stuffed my hands in my pockets to keep from pulling it free.
“I’ll see you in the office?”
His voice carried easily across the small distance between us—soft without being hesitant. It was the kind of tone that made people lean closer to hear the rest.
“Don’t forget your water bottle and make sure it’s full.”
His mouth curved in a quick, surprised smile. “Yes, Professor.”
Christ.
He turned and stepped into the aisle before I could say anything else.
The air he’d left behind shifted, clean and crisp with a faint sweetness beneath it.
Vanilla.
The smell hit me hard enough that my chest locked.
Some primitive part of my brain seemed convinced that if I stayed exactly where I was, the scent might linger long enough for me to keep it.
For one irrational second, I wanted to reach out, pull him back, bury my face in the warm space behind his ear, and inhale until the rest of the world disappeared.
I forced my hands to unclench and gathered the loose stack of notes from the podium. The lecture hall had emptied by the time I pushed through the doors and stepped into the corridor.
Archibald hadn’t made it far.
He stood about twenty feet down the hall with another man angled in front of him. At first glance, it might have looked like a casual conversation. The kind that happened a hundred times a day on campus.
I knew better.
Archie’s glasses had slipped slightly crooked on his nose, the left edge riding a little higher than the right. His thumb had found the cuff of his sleeve, rubbing the fabric slowly between his fingers.
Something’s wrong.
My reaction was immediate, physical enough that it felt like a knife sliding down my chest. Fuck. It was territorial, borderline barbaric, but still I fought back the instinct to wrap my hands around this man’s neck for just wandering into Archibald’s space—somewhere he had no fucking right to be.
I couldn’t see his face.
I didn’t know his name.
I hated him.
He was tall, blond, and broad-shouldered enough that he was able to place himself squarely in Archie’s path. His posture suggested patience, but the angle of his shoulders made the truth obvious.
He was cornering my rabbit.
The sound of my shoes striking the tile echoed harder than they should. Blood pulsed hot through my ears. My hands had already curled into fists, fingernails pressing half-moons into my palms by the time I closed the distance between us.
Archie noticed me first.
The tension around his mouth eased a fraction, the crease between his brows smoothing as recognition settled in.
Relief.
Archie was relieved to see me, and fuck if that didn’t move through me like a match striking.
By the time I reached them, the man had just finished asking something that made Archie’s shoulders tighten slightly beneath his sweater.
I stopped beside him. “Is there a problem here?”
The man turned toward me, surprise flashing briefly across his face before he smoothed it into a confident smile.
Hell.
I should’ve recognized the entitlement.
“Jackson.” His name tasted sour the second it formed, and whatever showed on my face didn’t seem to discourage him in the slightest.
Pretentious little shit.
“Professor Rothwell,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
For fuck’s sake… “My lecture hall is ten steps away. Let’s not play dumb.”
Jackson Randolph had been a fixture in faculty meetings before he’d even finished his freshman year. He wore a brand of confidence that had nothing to do with merit and everything to do with nepotism.
His acceptance into Wexley was inevitable.
I tolerated him only marginally more than his uncle—and if he was harassing my rabbit, he was about to find out exactly how thin that tolerance was.
“I was just talking to Quinn.”
Quinn.
As if Archie and Jackson were friends…
As if my rabbit and this overfunded example of nepotism had anything in common…
“I was just trying to understand how he managed to get the position.”
Jackson adjusted the cuff of his sleeve as he said it, thumb dragging along the edge of an expensive watch. The motion was smooth and practiced—no doubt something he picked up from his asshat of an uncle.
“I applied. I interviewed. I got the position,” Archie said. “That’s usually how it works.”
“Surely you remember the process, Mr. Randolph.”
Jackson’s tongue pressed into his cheek. “I remember it just fine. I also remember it being competitive. That’s why I was curious how Archie landed it.”
“I imagine it might have been because I was better than you.”
Jackson blinked once, like he hadn’t expected that. His jaw tightened hard enough that the muscle jumped beneath his skin.
For the briefest second, something low and vicious settled in my chest.
My rabbit had teeth.
“I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t qualified for the position, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t bring up the fact that there were stronger candidates.”
Archie’s mouth opened.
My toes curled inside my shoes, pressure building. If I took another step forward, I wasn’t entirely convinced I’d stop at conversation.
I preferred my violence quiet, controlled, and thought through.
Right now, I wanted to throw him over the nearest balcony and count the seconds until he hit.
“If you actually wanted to understand the hiring process, you’d be asking me.”
Jackson’s hand stilled against his watch.
“You stopped Archibald instead. Which tells me this isn’t about standards. It’s about you deciding he was an easier target. If you have questions about how I run my department, I’m happy to answer them. Otherwise, you’re wasting our time.”
The silence stretched just long enough to make it clear I was waiting for him to leave.
Too bad nobody taught him how to read a fucking room.
“I’m just saying positions like that usually go to people who already understand how things work here, and when they don’t, I’m left to wonder if maybe the department chose to send a message. Optics matter.”
“Optics,” Archie echoed. “You mean the part where I don’t look like I belong here?”
“I mean the part where departments highlight certain narratives. It’s not uncommon. Background, adversity… it all plays well.” Jackson’s mouth curved slightly. “Especially when the candidate doesn’t have much else to stand on.”
“Careful,” I ground out. “You’re getting close to saying something you won’t be able to take back.”
Jackson’s eyes flicked to me. “I’m speaking generally.”
“No. You’re not. You’re implying that I made a hiring decision based on anything other than competence, because that’s easier than accepting you weren’t the strongest candidate.”
Jackson’s fingers curled into his palm, tight enough that the tendons stood out along the back of his hand before he forced them flat again.
“If you want to talk about optics, you can make an appointment to visit my office. Right now, it looks like you stopped someone with less institutional power than you and tried to make him justify his presence. That’s not a good look, Mr. Randolph.”
“I think you’re misunderstanding me. I’m not questioning your decision.”
He lifted a hand, brushing it back through his hair out of habit, the motion stalling slightly when it didn’t move against all the fucking product he had in it.
“I understand now that Archibald was the best candidate for the position. I can’t imagine how that must feel,” he said, glancing at Archie. “Not having answers about your brother. Abel. That kind of thing tends to shape people. Department's notice.”
Archie’s breath stuttered, shoulders pulling tight before he forced them still. The grip he had on his sleeve went rigid, fabric drawn taut between his fingers.
His glasses slipped again, but he didn’t move to fix them.
Not this time.
For a second, he looked… younger than he should have.
I didn’t know what the hell Randolph was talking about, but I didn’t need to. Whatever it was, it had no goddamn business being said here.
Not like that.
Not to him.
“It must completely haunt you, but you’ve handled it so well, haven't you?”
“That’s enough,” I spat. “You don’t get to use that.”
“I’m not using anything. I was expressing sympathy.”
Bullshit.
“You were looking for something personal enough to land when everything else didn’t.”
His shoulders drew back a fraction, posture correcting itself like he’d been reminded who he was supposed to be. “I assure you, Professor, that’s not what I’m doing.”
“It is, actually.”
His mouth pressed thin, the corners tightening before he smoothed them out again. “That’s not what I—
“You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to go looking for leverage in places you have no right to touch.”
Jackson stood there a second too long, like he was still trying to decide whether this was something he could talk his way out of—whether there was a version of this conversation where he didn’t come out on the wrong side of it.
There wasn’t.
“I think this has been taken out of proportion,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I think you knew exactly what you were doing.” I stepped back, just enough to let him go. “Enjoy your afternoon, Mr. Randolph.”
Jackson lifted his chin, holding onto what little composure he had left. He cleared his throat, stepped around Archie, and started down the hallway.
Finally.
I turned to find Archibald exactly where I’d left him, the tension still pulled tight beneath the surface like it hadn’t been given anywhere to go.
His glasses were still crooked.
I reached for him without thinking.
My fingers found the frame, nudging it back into place. The side of my thumb brushed lightly against his temple, just enough to feel the warmth of his skin beneath it.
A strand of hair had fallen loose again, catching against the edge, and I smoothed it back into place without breaking contact.
His lips parted.
Warm breath ghosted over my cheek.
“Rabbit,” I murmured, thumb brushing his temple, just enough to keep him with me. “Don’t let him decide what matters about you.”
“Henry.”
Christ.
It was the first time he’d said my name. Not Professor. Not Rothwell. Just…. Henry.
Something in me snapped tight.
For a second, I forgot where we were.
Forgot the hallway.
Forgot everything except the way he said it—like it belonged to him.