Page 18 of Biblical Knowledge
No, what haunted me was Henry in the club.Henry standing there in Babylon, eyes wide, looking at me like—God, I didn’t even know.Like I was something dangerous.Like he’d stumbled across a temptation that terrified him.
And it had gutted me.
I’m used to people looking.That’s literally the point of what I do.I’m paid to be looked at.To be wanted.To be the guy who makes it okay to stare and ache and tip generously.Normally, I thrive on that energy.But with Henry, it had felt different.His gaze had burned straight through me.
And then—he bolted.
I rolled over again, punching my pillow like it had answers.Why did his leaving sting so much?Why did it feel like his rejection had sunk a hook into me?I don’t get embarrassed about my body, or about the fact that I dance.Its art and its survival rolled into one.I’ve always been unapologetic about it.
But the second Henry looked at me—sweet, sharp, devastating Henry—something in me shriveled.Like suddenly I was wrong, indecent, caught out in a sin I didn’t believe in.Shame had crawled up my throat, hot and choking, and I hated it.
Why him?Why now?
I sat up in bed, raking my hands through my hair.The room was dark, but my brain was a strobe light of memory.Henry’s mouth tightening.His eyes widened.That flicker—Christ, that flicker of emotion—before he’d turned and rushed for the door.
And then it hit me.
It wasn’t judgment.It wasn’t disgust.I knew those looks.I’d seen them on enough faces to catalog them: pity, contempt, moral superiority.But this had been different.
This had been hunger.
He hadn’t run because he was appalled by me.He’d run because he’d wanted me.
The thought shot a thrill straight through me, sharp enough to make me suck in a breath.I leaned back against the headboard, heart pounding like I’d just stepped off stage again.Could it be?Could quiet, careful Henry be that attracted to me?And if so—what did it mean for him?
I pictured his face again, the way his lips had parted, like he couldn’t breathe.The fear wasn’t of me.It was of himself.
“Holy shit,” I muttered into the empty room.
I dropped back down against the mattress, curling on my side.If I was right, if Henry’s fear was really desire… then I had to know.I had to press.Tomorrow, I'll find him.I’d ask.No—better, I’d make him admit it.
But for now, all I had was the thrum under my skin, the maddening loop of his face in the crowd, and the growing, undeniable pull in my chest.I’d thought Henry was just another curious mind, another guy I’d swap a few theological sparring matches with before he drifted back to his academic ivory tower.
Turns out, he might be the one who could undo me.
I exhaled, long and shaky, trying to shut off my brain.It didn’t work.All it did was make me more aware of the ache between my ribs.
Henry Forrester had run from me tonight.
But tomorrow—I wasn’t going to let him run again.
* * *
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, harsh against the polished oak tables.The classroom always felt too bright, too clean, like a sanctuary where every shadow had been banished.I walked in expecting the usual: students hunched over laptops, caffeine clutched like talismans, the low buzz of morning chatter.
But today, something snapped me wide awake.
Henry was there, but not seated at our usual table.He was seated near the very front, right beside her.
Rebecca Lyle.The one with the halo braid and the perpetual air of smug chastity.She was perched perfectly upright, sweater draped over her shoulders like she’d stepped out of a glossy evangelical pamphlet.Her notebook was already open, pen lined up beside it like she was preparing to transcribe scripture straight from the heavens.
Henry, though… Henry couldn’t look at me.His head was bent low, eyes locked on his notes, but not really reading them.His cheeks burned pink, the color creeping all the way to the tips of his ears.That was all the confirmation I needed.The heat in his face wasn’t judgment—it was an attraction he didn’t know how to cage.
I walked past, making sure my stride was slow, deliberate, letting Rebecca’s judgmental gaze slide over me.I smirked to myself and claimed my usual seat in the back, sprawling just enough to make it look casual.
The door opened a moment later, and in breezed Dr.Scheinbaum.Her platinum-blonde bob was razor sharp, her lipstick crimson, her tailored black blazer offset with a string of pearls that looked far too elegant for eight in the morning.She carried no coffee, no books—just a single slim Bible tucked under her arm like a weapon.
She set it on the lectern with a thud and surveyed us all with a cool, appraising stare.“Welcome back to Sacred Eroticism: Interpreting the Song of Solomon,” she said, voice clipped but sly.“And yes, in case anyone here has amnesia, this is the class where we read scripture and talk about sex.”
