Chapter 18
ARCHIE
Istood in Henry’s house, dressed in his clothes, wet hair dripping down the back of my neck and a belly full of pancakes.
Which was insane.
Not the pancakes. The pancakes were great. Disrespectfully great, actually, considering the man already had cheekbones, tenure, and the emotional presence of a locked cathedral. Apparently, he also knew how to cook.
Rude.
Henry had told me to make myself at home before disappearing upstairs to shower, which felt deeply unfair since he had not invited me to join him. I was choosing maturity about it.
Barely.
I shifted in place, toes pressing into the warm wood floor, one hand tugging absently at the hem of his shirt.
It hung too loose on me, the collar slipping just enough that I kept having to pretend I didn’t like it.
The sweats weren’t much better—soft, dark, rolled once at the waist so they wouldn’t slide off my hips.
I’d asked him to take me home after breakfast so I could get dressed for the day.
He’d looked me over once, slow enough to ruin my ability to form arguments.
“I like you in my clothes.”
And honestly?
Couldn’t argue with that.
I’d tried Rhys next, because self-preservation occasionally made a guest appearance in my life.
“I should check in with Rhys.”
“I texted him last night,” Henry said. “He knows you’re here. He knows you’re safe. He wants you to call him on his lunch break.”
My heart had swelled right there in my chest.
He’d thought about it.
Not just me—my life. The people in it. The ones who mattered enough that disappearing would set off alarms.
He’d handled it, and it was a relief.
Real relief that didn’t come with a catch or a follow-up task or a list of things I still needed to fix. My brain didn’t have to spin, or run through contingencies, or keep ten steps ahead just to stay afloat.
For once, something had been handled for me.
I could just… be.
Not think about what I was forgetting.
Not wonder who I was letting down.
It felt like a dangerously easy thing to get used to.
The pipes groaned somewhere above me, followed by the steady rush of water kicking on. It brought me back to the moment, and I tipped my head, listening as it evened out into a low, constant hum in the walls.
My hand dragged along the edge of the counter as I moved, fingers brushing over smooth stone as I stepped out of the kitchen and into the rest of the house.
For someone with money, he had shockingly little interest in making it obvious.
I liked it.
Moving through the living room, I slowed without meaning to, eyes catching on the details I hadn’t noticed before—another bookshelf, a chair angled toward the window with a blanket thrown over the arm of it like he actually sat there and stayed for a while.
At the far end of the living room, a set of wooden double doors caught my eye. One of them sat just slightly ajar.
I drifted that way without thinking too hard about it. My palm settled against the edge of the door, the wood smooth and warm under my hand, and I pushed it open.
The hinges creaked softly.
Henry’s home office opened up in front of me.
I knew it the second I stepped inside.
Not just because of the desk or the laptop or the quiet weight of the room—but because it felt like him in a way the one at the university never did.
His office on campus was controlled. Everything in its place, nothing left behind that didn’t need to be there. You could sit across from him in that space and think you understood him.
Here, there were pieces of him everywhere.
The desk was still the same dark wood, solid and anchored, but it wasn’t cleared off to a perfect surface. Papers were spread across it, worked through, marked up, left mid-thought. His laptop sat open, screen dimmed but alive, like he’d stepped away and expected to come back.
Books weren’t lined up for show—they were open, stacked, left where he’d last touched them. Notes in the margins. Pages flagged. A pen resting sideways across a sheet like he’d set it down and moved on to something else without finishing.
I stepped further in without thinking, gaze moving slowly, taking it in piece by piece.
“Jesus,” I muttered under my breath.
What didn’t this man do?
Teach. Cook. Whatever the hell this was—
Writing another book, maybe? Something that required this level of… immersion.
More papers were spread out across the rug like he’d run out of space and just kept going.
A small stack of yearbooks sat off to the side, edges worn soft with use, tabs sticking from them as though Henry had marked certain students.
I crouched without thinking, thumbing through the clippings. Some were highlighted, others marked up in the margins the same way his notes were.
I spotted an article sitting near my knee, the headline bold enough to pull me in.
THE ASHFORD ACADEMY FIRE
Four Faculty Members Dead in Sealed Archive Wing; Student Aide Survives
I leaned slightly, not even realizing I was doing it, eyes tracking over the first few lines. Words like pronounced dead stood out, detached and clinical in a way that didn’t match the weight they carried.
Another page sat half beneath it.
Not an article.
Eulogies.
Names listed one after another of men who’d died in that fire, followed by paragraphs that tried to make them sound whole.
I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose, settling to my knees as my eyes moved slower, not really reading anymore—just… taking it in.
Why?
The question sat there, persistent, nagging at something in me that I couldn't quite pinpoint.
I saw it then—a single sheet of paper.
Not part of the stacks. Not tucked into anything. Just… sitting there.
My stomach squeezed.
I reached for it before I could talk myself out of it, fingers brushing the edge as I pulled it closer.
You buried it well. But not well enough.
For a second, I didn’t move.
Then something hot and sharp pushed up under my skin, fast enough to make my fingers tighten on the page. The fine hairs along my arms lifted, a prickle racing up the back of my neck as my pulse kicked hard.
What the fuck was this?
Someone was digging at him—at the worst thing that had ever happened to him and leaving it here like a reminder.
Like a goddamn threat.
My jaw clenched, heat settling in my chest.
“Are you serious?” I spat under my breath, the paper crinkling slightly in my grip. “Who the hell—”
“Archibald.”
The sound of my name cut clean through the room. I turned and found Henry standing in the doorway, one hand braced lightly against the frame, damp hair pushed back from his face, water still clinging at his temples.
His eyes flicked once to the papers on the floor.
Then to me.
I pushed to my feet, still holding the page, that tight, hot feeling not going anywhere as I stepped toward him.
“Is someone threatening you?” I demanded, holding it up between us.
Henry looked at me like that wasn’t what he expected, lips pressing together as though he was… amused.
Was he joking?
My hand twitched, paper crinkling beneath my palm as something cold came over me—something that didn't match the heat climbing up my spine.
Someone was threatening my daddy.
I wasn’t exactly known for throwing punches or picking fights, but if someone came for what was mine… I would rip the skin of their face.
“Who is it?” I pressed, holding the note up again. “Is that what this is?” I gestured vaguely to the room, the papers, the yearbooks, all of it. “You trying to figure out who’s doing this?”
“That,” he said evenly, stepping fully into the room, “is exactly what I’m trying to figure out, sweetheart.”
Oh.
“That’s not a reassuring answer.”
He reached for the paper, pulling it from my palm and tossing it somewhere over my shoulder.
“It’s the honest one.”
I swallowed. That hot, protective feeling didn’t go anywhere. If anything, it settled deeper instead.
“Okay,” I said. “Then we figure it out.”
“No.”
I jolted. “No?”
“I don't want you anywhere near this.”
“What even is all of this?” I turned, gesturing at the room.
“It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
“That’s not—” I cut myself off, dragging a hand through my hair. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
He moved then, past me and down to the floor, crouching without urgency, like the conversation wasn’t rattling him the way it was me. His hands started gathering the papers, stacking them neatly.
That somehow made it worse.
“I just—” I exhaled sharply, pacing a step before stopping again. “I just got you.”
His hands stilled.
“And I’m not about to stand here and pretend I’m fine with someone coming after you. I—I can't lose you. I’m already barely functioning emotionally, if I lose you too, I’m going to become a ghost.”
For a second, nothing moved.
Then his hands uncurled, dropping the papers he had in his grip as he rose—slowly—like something had shifted, and he was adjusting to it in real time.
His eyes stayed on me the whole way, growing wider as he crossed the space between us. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him before he even touched me.
“Baby,” he said quietly, one hand coming up, brushing along my jaw, grounding. “I’m not going to get hurt.”
“Can you see the future now, Professor?” I snapped. “Because if not, you can’t promise me that.”
“Brat,” he said fondly, holding my face, looking at me like he was resisting the urge to smile.
It was… infuriating.
How was he so calm?
How was he standing there so controlled when everything in me was the exact opposite?
My pulse was loud in my ears, something hot and overwhelming building under my skin, pressing up into my chest until it felt too tight to hold.
“You don’t get to just dismiss this. Not when it’s you.”
“I’m not dismissing anything, Rabbit. I’m handling it.”
I huffed out a breath, my hands coming up to his wrists, holding there like I needed something solid to anchor to.
“I love you.”
He sucked in a sharp breath.
“I love you so much,” I pushed on. “I feel like I can’t see straight. Like something’s off and I need my prescription checked because everything just—” I huffed out a breath, shaking my head. “Everything’s different when you’re here. When I’m around you.”
“Archie—”
“I mean it,” I vowed. “I know it’s fast, but I don’t care. I do. I love you.”
He swayed once—my words hitting him hard enough to throw him off balance, his hands tightening on my cheeks, pulling me closer until our foreheads pressed together.
“I love you too. Christ. I love you so fucking much.”
Something in me gave way the second he said it, the tight, braced part of me loosening all at once like I hadn’t realized how hard I’d been holding on until I didn’t have to anymore. The pressure eased, leaving me light-headed for a second.
I pressed closer without thinking. “You don’t get to take that back,” I breathed, half into his mouth, half into the space between us.
“Not planning on it.”
His lips found mine before I could say anything else. Heat rushed through me so fast it felt disorienting.
It wasn’t just a kiss.
It was something settling into place—shifting to make room for him. Reshaping, stretching, and rewriting itself around the way he held me there.
“Henry—”
I turned my head slightly, pressing my forehead back to his like I needed the contact but couldn’t let him derail me completely.
“Don’t distract me,” I panted.
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” I cut in, pulling back just enough to look at him. “And it’s working, which is the problem.”
His mouth twitched.
“Does this mean I can help?” I pushed. “With this? With whoever the hell thinks they can leave something like that for you?”
“No.”
I blinked. “Are you joking?”
“I told you I don’t want you anywhere near my past.”
I let out a short breath, something almost like a laugh slipping out with it, shaking my head.
“And why not?”
“Because it's tainted with death, and pain, and things more fucked up than you can even imagine.” He pressed his lips against my forehead. “You’re too precious for that.”
God.
He made it hard to be mad at him.
“Henry, you do remember my brother disappeared from my front yard? My mother’s agoraphobic? I eat SSRIs for breakfast and have spent thousands on therapy trying to cure my clethtropbia. Which, by the way, most people don’t recognize as something real.”
“That’s ridiculous. Of course it’s real.”
“My point is, I’m not unstained by trauma, Henry. Whatever it is, I can handle it.”
For you.
For you, I can handle anything.
A pained sound rumbled low in his throat. “It’ll change how you see me.”
“Impossible,” I swore. “There is literally nothing you could say that would change how much I love you. I’m already in too deep,” I pursed my lips. “Like… probably concerningly deep. I should maybe bring this up in therapy.”
“Archibald.”
Archibald.
Not baby, or sweetheart, or rabbit.
It was concerning, and so was the breath he expelled, his body curling inward as though it physically pained him.
“The Ashford Fire… it wasn’t an accident.”
Uhm… “It was an electrical fire. Does that not qualify as an accident?”
He shook his head, pulling away from me. “It wasn’t an electrical fire, Archie. It was arson.”
My eyes widened. “How—how do you know that?”
“Because it was me,” he said. “I set the fire. I killed them.”