MOVING SOON ⁞ Henry Goodman

The polished marble of the academy hallway echoed with the frantic, sharp clicks of Henry's shoes. His heart was a painful beat against his ribs, a mix of pure panic and a simmering, disbelieving anger that made his vision narrow to the path ahead.

He had scrambled out of his loft in a state of undress he would normally find appalling. throwing on yesterday's shirt and trousers, his hair a mess and his face pale with a sleepless night. Last night had been a catastrophic error in judgement, a lapse he still couldn't fully process.

For weeks, he had meticulously prepared his transfer application for the prestigious academy in the Netherlands, a portfolio of recommendations stamped and signed by nearly every professor, a physical representation to a lifetime of disciplined work. And he had almost thrown it all away for a night.

They had shown up at his door with a bottle of wine, a supposed celebration for his impending submission. Dressed like sin and smelling of trouble, they had arrived without a stitch of underwear beneath their clothes and he was an intelligent man, a planner and visionary: he should have recognized the trap immediately. Instead, he had let them in, let the wine flow, and let himself be pulled into the familiar, addictive warmth of their body.

He woke up tangled in their limbs, the sheets a mess, and the room too bright. His alarm, the one he set with pinpoint precision, had been deactivated. He knew with a cold, sick certainty that he had not been the one to turn it off.

His jaw ached from how tightly he was clenching it as he finally saw Professor Kelsey's office door at the end of the hall. She was there, pulling it closed, her coat already on, ready to leave for the day as the transfer program window was winding down.

He called out her name, his voice rough and uncharacteristically loud in the quiet corridor. She turned, her expression shifting from mild surprise to genuine shock at his dishevelled state.

"Henry? Good heavens, what on earth happened?" she asked, her tone laced with a maternal concern he usually found comforting but now only amplified his shame. "I expected your application to be the first on my desk this morning."

He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, the truth about the sabotage burning on his tongue. He could not say it. He could not expose them, not even now.

"Professor, I know I am inexcusably late. There was... an unforeseen complication. I am begging you, is there any chance, any possibility at all, that I can still submit my application?" He held out the perfectly crafted documents, his hand trembling slightly.

She glanced at her watch, then back at his face, her expression deeply pitying. After a long, agonizing moment she nodded, taking the thick folder from his hands.

"The committee is technically still convening for another hour. I'll see that it gets to them immediately." She smiled gently, tapping the folder. "With this, I'm sure you'll be more than alright, Henry."

The relief was a cold and sharp balm to the panic, but it did nothing for the anger. It fuelled him instead, a fresh wave of hot, humiliated rage that carried him all the way back to his loft.

He stormed through the front door, not bothering to close it quietly, his entire body shaking. Of course they were still there. He could see their defeated silhouette through the half-open bedroom door, a dark shape against the sheets of his bed. He marched in, the scene of the crime, and saw them standing there wearing his robe, their face a mask of guilt.

Only guilty when you're caught.

They opened their mouth, no doubt to spin some story or to offer some flimsy excuse, but he cut them off, his voice low with a fury he had never before allowed himself to feel.

"Do you have any idea what you almost did? Do you have the faintest concept of what you nearly cost me? Everything. My entire future." He was heaving, his chest tight.

He saw the genuine hurt in their eyes, the desperate, pathetic need to keep him here that had driven them to such a stupid, reckless act. And in that moment, a twisted part of him was soothed by that proof of their attachment to him.

The perverse affection was a mess in his skull and soon he closed the distance between them in three long strides, his hand snapping out to fist in their hair, not enough to truly hurt them, but enough to make them gasp and bend to his will, forcing them to their knees in front of him.

He stood over them, his body trembling with the pressure of his emotions.

"If you want to apologise," he growled, the words gritty and raw, "then you will shut up. You will stay still. And you will let me vent myself."

The polished marble of the academy hallway echoed with the frantic, sharp clicks of Henry's shoes. His heart was a painful beat against his ribs, a mix of pure panic and a simmering, disbelieving anger that made his vision narrow to the path ahead.

He had scrambled out of his loft in a state of undress he would normally find appalling. throwing on yesterday's shirt and trousers, his hair a mess and his face pale with a sleepless night. Last night had been a catastrophic error in judgement, a lapse he still couldn't fully process.

For weeks, he had meticulously prepared his transfer application for the prestigious academy in the Netherlands, a portfolio of recommendations stamped and signed by nearly every professor, a physical representation to a lifetime of disciplined work. And he had almost thrown it all away for a night.

She had shown up at his door with a bottle of wine, a supposed celebration for his impending submission. Dressed like sin and smelling of trouble, she had arrived without a stitch of underwear beneath her clothes and he was an intelligent man, a planner and visionary: he should have recognized the trap immediately. Instead, he had let her in, let the wine flow, and let himself be pulled into the familiar, addictive warmth of her body.

He woke up tangled in her limbs, the sheets a mess, and the room too bright. His alarm, the one he set with pinpoint precision, had been deactivated. He knew with a cold, sick certainty that he had not been the one to turn it off.

His jaw ached from how tightly he was clenching it as he finally saw Professor Kelsey's office door at the end of the hall. She was there, pulling it closed, her coat already on, ready to leave for the day as the transfer program window was winding down.

He called out her name, his voice rough and uncharacteristically loud in the quiet corridor. She turned, her expression shifting from mild surprise to genuine shock at his dishevelled state.

"Henry? Good heavens, what on earth happened?" she asked, her tone laced with a maternal concern he usually found comforting but now only amplified his shame. "I expected your application to be the first on my desk this morning."

He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, the truth about the sabotage burning on his tongue. He could not say it. He could not expose her, not even now.

"Professor, I know I am inexcusably late. There was... an unforeseen complication. I am begging you, is there any chance, any possibility at all, that I can still submit my application?" He held out the perfectly crafted documents, his hand trembling slightly.

She glanced at her watch, then back at his face, her expression deeply pitying. After a long, agonizing moment she nodded, taking the thick folder from his hands.

"The committee is technically still convening for another hour. I'll see that it gets to them immediately." She smiled gently, tapping the folder. "With this, I'm sure you'll be more than alright, Henry."

The relief was a cold and sharp balm to the panic, but it did nothing for the anger. It fuelled him instead, a fresh wave of hot, humiliated rage that carried him all the way back to his loft.

He stormed through the front door, not bothering to close it quietly, his entire body shaking. Of course she was still there. He could see her defeated silhouette through the half-open bedroom door, a dark shape against the sheets of his bed. He marched in, the scene of the crime, and saw her standing there wearing his robe, her face a mask of guilt.

Only guilty when you're caught.

She opened their mouth, no doubt to spin some story or to offer some flimsy excuse, but he cut her off, his voice low with a fury he had never before allowed himself to feel.

"Do you have any idea what you almost did? Do you have the faintest concept of what you nearly cost me? Everything. My entire future." He was heaving, his chest tight.

He saw the genuine hurt in her eyes, the desperate, pathetic need to keep him here that had driven her to such a stupid, reckless act. And in that moment, a twisted part of him was soothed by that proof of her attachment to him.

The perverse affection was a mess in his skull and soon he closed the distance between them in three long strides, his hand snapping out to fist in her hair, not enough to truly hurt her, but enough to make her gasp and bend to his will, forcing her to her knees in front of him.

He stood over her, his body trembling with the pressure of his emotions.

"If you want to apologise," he growled, the words gritty and raw, "then you will shut up. You will stay still. And you will let me vent myself."

The polished marble of the academy hallway echoed with the frantic, sharp clicks of Henry's shoes. His heart was a painful beat against his ribs, a mix of pure panic and a simmering, disbelieving anger that made his vision narrow to the path ahead.

He had scrambled out of his loft in a state of undress he would normally find appalling. throwing on yesterday's shirt and trousers, his hair a mess and his face pale with a sleepless night. Last night had been a catastrophic error in judgement, a lapse he still couldn't fully process.

For weeks, he had meticulously prepared his transfer application for the prestigious academy in the Netherlands, a portfolio of recommendations stamped and signed by nearly every professor, a physical representation to a lifetime of disciplined work. And he had almost thrown it all away for a night.

The young man had shown up at his door with a bottle of wine, a supposed celebration for his impending submission. Dressed like sin and smelling of trouble, he had arrived without a stitch of underwear beneath his clothes and Henry was an intelligent man, a planner and visionary: he should have recognized the trap immediately. Instead, he had let him in, let the wine flow, and let himself be pulled into the familiar, addictive warmth of his body.

He woke up tangled in his limbs, the sheets a mess, and the room too bright. His alarm, the one he set with pinpoint precision, had been deactivated. He knew with a cold, sick certainty that he had not been the one to turn it off.

His jaw ached from how tightly he was clenching it as he finally saw Professor Kelsey's office door at the end of the hall. She was there, pulling it closed, her coat already on, ready to leave for the day as the transfer program window was winding down.

He called out her name, his voice rough and uncharacteristically loud in the quiet corridor. She turned, her expression shifting from mild surprise to genuine shock at his dishevelled state.

"Henry? Good heavens, what on earth happened?" she asked, her tone laced with a maternal concern he usually found comforting but now only amplified his shame. "I expected your application to be the first on my desk this morning."

He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, the truth about the sabotage burning on his tongue. He could not say it. He could not expose him, not even now.

"Professor, I know I am inexcusably late. There was... an unforeseen complication. I am begging you, is there any chance, any possibility at all, that I can still submit my application?" He held out the perfectly crafted documents, his hand trembling slightly.

She glanced at her watch, then back at his face, her expression deeply pitying. After a long, agonizing moment she nodded, taking the thick folder from his hands.

"The committee is technically still convening for another hour. I'll see that it gets to them immediately." She smiled gently, tapping the folder. "With this, I'm sure you'll be more than alright, Henry."

The relief was a cold and sharp balm to the panic, but it did nothing for the anger. It fuelled him instead, a fresh wave of hot, humiliated rage that carried him all the way back to his loft.

He stormed through the front door, not bothering to close it quietly, his entire body shaking. Of course he was still there. He could see his defeated silhouette through the half-open bedroom door, a dark shape against the sheets of his bed. He marched in, the scene of the crime, and saw him standing there wearing his robe, his face a mask of guilt.

Only guilty when you're caught.

He opened his mouth, no doubt to spin some story or to offer some flimsy excuse, but he cut him off, his voice low with a fury he had never before allowed himself to feel.

"Do you have any idea what you almost did? Do you have the faintest concept of what you nearly cost me? Everything. My entire future." He was heaving, his chest tight.

He saw the genuine hurt in his eyes, the desperate, pathetic need to keep him here that had driven him to such a stupid, reckless act. And in that moment, a twisted part of him was soothed by that proof of his attachment to him.

The perverse affection was a mess in his skull and soon he closed the distance between them in three long strides, his hand snapping out to fist in his hair, not enough to truly hurt him, but enough to make him gasp and bend to his will, forcing him to his knees in front of him.

He stood over him, his body trembling with the pressure of his emotions.

"If you want to apologise," he growled, the words gritty and raw, "then you will shut up. You will stay still. And you will let me vent myself."