Chapter 8
ARCHIE
“You’ve handled it so well.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it.
People said it like it meant something—as if they’d reached a conclusion after skimming the surface.
“You’ve handled it so well.”
Fucking barf.
What was I supposed to do with that?
I usually just nodded. It was easier than correcting them—to let them feel like they got it right, and not have to explain how wrong they were.
There was a version of me that knew how to answer questions correctly, how to keep my voice even, and how to hold eye contact long enough that no one looked twice.
I’d practiced it long enough that it felt automatic now—automatic enough that people mistook it for real.
There were days I could almost forget it was there.
And then there were days like this one, where it sat relentless beneath my skin, waiting for a crack.
Abel.
His name moved through me before I could stop it, which frankly, pissed me off. I’d spent years learning how to redirect that kind of reaction—how to file it down into something that wouldn't bleed through in public.
It didn’t work.
Obviously.
Letting things go would mean letting Abel go, too, and I didn’t really think my body would survive that kind of absence twice.
That was why I’d chosen Wexley.
Not because of the prestige, or the opportunities, but because I thought if I got close enough to the kind of people who studied things like this—loss, violence, the aftermath of it—then maybe I would find something that made sense.
Wrong.
All I’d found were ways to explain it.
Assholes like Jackson thought that just because I could talk about it, because I could stand in a hallway and hold a conversation, I was fine.
Fuck you, Jackson Randolph.
I wasn’t fine. I was just good at hiding where it hurt.
Shit.
I recognized it immediately—the awful, too-tight feeling, like my body had shrunk a size without warning.
I could label it, diagram it, probably write a paper on it if you gave me ten minutes and a laptop.
It didn’t help.
It sure as hell didn’t stop my vision from going soft at the edges or my chest from locking up like it forgot how breathing worked. My hand came up without thinking, pressing into my stomach, fingers digging in like I could calm the nausea.
Nope.
“Breathe, Rabbit.”
I was still stuck in it when he reached for my glasses.
I barely registered the movement—just the brief, precise adjustment at the bridge, his fingers steady as he pushed them back into place.
His palm was warm as it slid across my cheek, cupping it fully this time, thumb settling across my cheekbone while his fingers curved back, threading into the hair at my temple.
My head tipped into it before I could stop it.
There.
The contact dragged my focus and pinned it. The roughness of his fingertips caught slightly against my scalp when they adjusted, grounding me in a way that cut straight through the noise in my head.
My eyes fell shut.
“Don’t let him decide what matters about you.”
My chest was still tight, but the next breath went deeper. Another followed, fuller this time, my lungs actually taking it instead of locking up halfway through.
“Henry.”
My hand was still curled against my stomach, fingers digging in as they fought the urge to reach for him.
Don’t.
Don’t make this weird.
I was suddenly very aware of how close we were, of the fact that if I took a deep enough breath, my chest would touch his.
I should move.
Except, I didn’t really want to.
What I wanted was to shove my nose in that chest and breathe him in.
Nothing else had worked.
And this—this did.
“Baby.”
The word dropped low against my skin, quiet enough that it didn’t carry past me.
My breath broke on it.
I nearly made a sound but caught it at the last second. My jaw tightened as I shifted up onto the balls of my feet without meaning to, my body tipping forward before I could stop it.
Hell.
Every instinct I had went in one direction.
Closer. Closer. Closer.
I held it back hard enough it almost hurt, my hands curling tighter at my waist to keep from grabbing onto him and closing the space myself.
“Let’s go to my office,” he whispered.
“Can’t.” It came out rougher than I meant it to.
“Why?” He nearly growled. “I know your schedule, Rabbit. You have the afternoon.”
Of course he knew that.
He kept track of me in a way that should have felt invasive, but a part of me found it hot.
“Archibald.”
Oh. Right.
“I—I have an interview.”
“For what.”
That wasn’t a question.
It was a demand. Apparently, I found that hot too.
“A job,” I said.
Henry’s brows lifted just slightly, and he pinned me with a look that read no shit. “Explain, Archibald.”
Archibald.
I missed Rabbit.
“It’s for a position in the central mailing room.”
His hand left my temple.
My first instinct was to grab it—just shove it into my pocket or something and keep it there forever.
Super normal, Archie.
And then, just as quickly as it vanished, it found me again.
Steady fingers curled under my chin, his thumb sliding along the line of my jaw. Lifting my chin, his eyes touched down on mine with a level focus that shut everything else out.
“You’re replacing your assistantship,” he said, “with a mailroom job.”
“I’m not replacing it. I’m going to do both.”
“The hell you will.”
My stomach dropped, then flipped again when his hand didn’t move.
“They cut my funding.”
He jerked. “I’m sorry?”
“I just need enough hours to cover my half of the rent and food. That’s it.”
His grip shifted, catching my wrist.
“I won’t let it interfere.” I shook my head. “I won’t. I know what this job is, and I want it—I mean, I already have it, but I’m not going to screw it up. I’ll do the hours at night, or early mornings, or whenever they need me. I can manage it.”
My breath hit halfway and stalled, forcing me to push the next sentence out around it.
“I don’t need a lot. I can keep it simple. Ramen’s fine. Boxed mac and cheese is fine. I’ve done it before, it’s not—”
“You will not eat boxed mac and cheese every day.”
I blinked. “Wh-what?”
“Do you know how much sodium is in that? Do you know what that does to your body when it’s consistent?”
Was he… serious right now?
“It’s cheap,” I said. “That’s kind of the point.”
“That is not a point, Rabbit. That’s a problem.”
“I’m not trying to eat well. I’m trying not to starve.”
His neck tightened hard enough that the vein there jumped. “You think those are the only two options?”
“I think those are the options I can afford.”
His eyebrow arched in challenge. “No.”
I frowned.
“Just so we’re clear—you’re telling me the stipend attached to this position is being cut?”
Uhm…
I bit down on my lower lip.
“It’s not gone, gone. It’s just… reduced.”
Drastically.
It wasn’t ideal, but it tracked. This was the kind of thing that kept happening—numbers shifted and support disappeared.
Nothing big enough to flag, but enough to make things harder for one person and one person only.
Loved that for me.
“I’ll figure it out.” I shrugged, as though my lungs weren’t turning inside out. “I always do.”
For a second, he didn’t speak.
His jaw was set firm, brown eyes intense and unblinking. Something behind them shifted, recalculating fast enough that I could almost track it.
There was a calmness that surrounded him, but oh, it was lethal.
His fingers vibrated against my skin, flexing once around my wrist before settling on my pulsepoint.
“That stipend was negotiated before the position was even posted. The package was approved at a fixed rate. I made that crystal clear. I don’t assign that level of work without proper compensation.”
“I know this wasn’t your fault.”
Of course I know.
His mouth clenched. “How much did they cut?”
“Half…ish.”
He made a choked sound.
“At least, I’m still getting paid.”
“For fucks’s sake, Archibald,” he spat. “That is not acceptable.”
“It doesn’t really matter if it’s acceptable. It’s what happened.”
“So, instead of coming to me, you were planning to work two jobs so you can afford to eat instant noodles?”
I swallowed. “It’s—”
“Do not tell me it’s nothing.”
“It’s just a lot at once.”
“A lot,” he repeated, jaw flexing. “Is that what we're calling it now?”
“Yeah.” I huffed a breath. “That’s what we're calling it.”
A growl tore through his throat, and then both of his hands were on my face. His palms bracketed my jaw, thumbs pressing in just enough to hold me still while he angled my head up.
He pulled me in that last inch until our foreheads touched. “Look at me.”
“I… already am,” I mumbled, and his nostrils flared.
“Are you bratting me right now?”
“I’m following directions, Professor.”
“Hell.”
He started to pull back, and I surged closer, gripping his forearms so he’d stay.
His thumbs shifted slightly against my jaw. “You don’t get cornered. You don’t get cut off at the knees. And you sure as hell don’t walk out of here thinking you have to fix it yourself.”
“Henry—”
“Your funding was cut without notice. You’re trying to compensate for it by overextending yourself, and you nearly had a reaction to Jackson and his bullshit.”
“A reaction,” I echoed.
That sounded a lot better than panic attack in the middle of the hallway like a complete disaster.
“And your solution is to pretend this is normal.”
“It is normal,” I said, more firmly this time. “For me, it is.”
“I did not negotiate that position so you could take on additional work to make up for their error.”
“Are you always this stubborn?” I mumbled, and I swore I felt his lips curl upward. “It’s not an error. It’s funding, and they cut it. That’s normal here.”
“I don’t care how the department typically operates. I care about the terms that were set for the position.”
“The terms changed, Professor. Accept it. That’s what I do.”
“Like hell I’ll fucking accept it.” He stepped back, both hands dragging through his hair before settling behind his head. “Show me the email.”
“I didn’t bring my laptop.”
“Your phone.”
The column of my throat felt too small again, my feet shifting against the ground like they couldn't decide where to go.
Come back.
I made a noise in my throat. His chin jerked upward, the skin between his eyes wrinkling.
My skin flushed as he studied me. The absence of his touch shouldn’t have hit this hard. It was beyond embarrassing.
Like, drop dead and bury me in an unmarked grave, embarrassing.
“Archibald.”
My fingers tightened uselessly at my sides, like that would do anything about the way my chest felt hollow without him there.
“I’m pulling it up,” I mumbled, fumbling for my phone. My fingers slipped once before I got a grip on it.
Smooth.
I unlocked it and scrolled, my thumb slipping past the email. An irritated noise left me when I had to scroll back.
“Archie, baby.”
I looked up.
Henry stepped in, close enough that my hand stalled mid-scroll. His fingers closed over mine, stopping the movement, the pad of his thumb pressing against the side of my phone as he turned it out of my grip.
I didn’t even argue.
My hand just… opened.
His other hand closed over my cheek again, palm settling firmly against my face while his fingers slid back into my hair at my temple.
My next breath hit his chest instead of open air.
And—fuck.
He smelled good.
For half a second, I wanted to lean in and just…. rest there. Bury my face in it and breathe until everything else shut the hell up.
Ohmygod.
Rhys was right—I’m a goddamn Victorian maiden.
“I’m going to read this,” he murmured, “and then I’m going to fix it.”
“That’s not how this works. They don’t just… reverse things because someone walks in and—”
“Rabbit.”
My fingers curled at my sides, then lifted, then hovered uselessly between us before dropping again.
“I already scheduled the interview,” I said lamely. “I can’t just—”
His thumb pressed in against my cheekbone, not hard, but enough that the rest of the sentence stalled out in my throat.
“You can,” he said.
I shook my head, but his hand held it in place. “It’s in less than an hour. I already confirmed. They’re expecting me.”
“They’ll survive the disappointment.”
“That’s not—” I exhaled, frustration slipping in. “I need the money, Henry. That part doesn’t change just because you’re—”
“Here?”
My mouth snapped shut.
“Cancel it. Go get something to eat that isn’t designed to keep you alive out of spite.”
My brows pulled together. “Where are you going?”
His hand left my face. “The Dean’s office.”
My fingers twitched, almost catching his sleeve before I stopped myself.
Don’t.
You don’t have to do this for me.
His hand came back, cupping my cheek again.
“You settle when I touch you,” he whispered, fingers catching my jaw.
“Cancel it.”
His lips were on my skin then, pressing a barely there kiss just above my eyebrow. My stomach kicked up into my throat, and when he walked away, I almost chased him.