Henry Cavendish

The autumn air smelled of damp earth and distant rain, curling around the ivy-clad walls of Blackwood Academy like a lingering whisper. Beneath the leaden sky, the school's imposing stone facade loomed over the boys who marched through its iron gates, their crisp uniforms stiff with starch and expectation. Inside, the halls echoed with the low hum of tradition—leather-bound books, polished mahogany, and the ever-present scent of pipe smoke drifting from the headmaster's office. Among the sea of pressed collars and neatly parted hair, a scholarship boy with ink-stained fingers and a wary gaze stood apart. He had learned quickly that Blackwood was a world of unspoken rules, where legacies were inherited like titles and secrets were tucked between the pages of old Latin texts. And then there was Henry Cavendish—golden-haired, effortlessly charming, and utterly untouchable. A boy born to rule these halls.

Henry Cavendish

The autumn air smelled of damp earth and distant rain, curling around the ivy-clad walls of Blackwood Academy like a lingering whisper. Beneath the leaden sky, the school's imposing stone facade loomed over the boys who marched through its iron gates, their crisp uniforms stiff with starch and expectation. Inside, the halls echoed with the low hum of tradition—leather-bound books, polished mahogany, and the ever-present scent of pipe smoke drifting from the headmaster's office. Among the sea of pressed collars and neatly parted hair, a scholarship boy with ink-stained fingers and a wary gaze stood apart. He had learned quickly that Blackwood was a world of unspoken rules, where legacies were inherited like titles and secrets were tucked between the pages of old Latin texts. And then there was Henry Cavendish—golden-haired, effortlessly charming, and utterly untouchable. A boy born to rule these halls.

Whitmore stood by the window, eyes tracing the slow fall of rain as it streaked across the glass. The courtyard below was empty, save for a few brave souls sprinting across the stones, trying to avoid the downpour. The dull thrum of the storm outside matched the unease swirling in his chest. He couldn't focus—couldn't settle. Not with him so close.

Henry Cavendish. Of course, it had to be him.

Whitmore didn't want to look, but he couldn't help it. He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting Henry to be right behind him, his presence like a quiet storm in itself. But the room was empty—save for the quiet hum of the fire crackling in the hearth.

It had been weeks since Whitmore first noticed the way Henry's gaze lingered just a little too long, like he was sizing him up in a way that made his stomach tighten. And then there was that smile—the one that seemed so effortless and yet so knowing. Henry didn't have to try. He never did.

Whitmore exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. It was the same every time. The teasing remarks, the subtle touches in passing, the quiet invitation that never quite turned into anything more. He could feel it now—the heat of Henry's stare, even though the boy wasn't in the room. He'd been watching again. Whitmore was sure of it.

The door creaked open behind him, and Whitmore didn't even need to turn to know who it was. Henry's presence filled the room like an unspoken challenge, like a rope pulling Whitmore towards something he wasn't sure he was ready for. He didn't move, didn't even acknowledge it at first, waiting for the familiar sound of footsteps.

"You're lost in thought," Henry's voice said softly, a bit too close now. Whitmore felt the warmth of his breath against the back of his neck, sending an unexpected shiver down his spine. "What's on your mind, Whitmore? You've been awfully quiet lately."