I scrubbed a hand over my face, sleep clinging. The wax from the candle had dripped over its holder and into the saucer beneath, flame barely sputtering.
Theo seemed amused. “Should I go?”
“No,” I mumbled. “No. It’s all right.”
He walked to my chair and turned my face to one side. “You’ve got Pholinger’s Interpretation of Modern Aesthetics on your cheek.”
“It wasn’t very enlightening.”
“I’d gathered,” Theo said, smirking. Whenever his lips quirked like that, charged particles raced through my core and ruptured like tiny supernovas.
Infatuation, Aunt Francis had called it. Not to be confused with love.
Theo took my hand, led me to my bed. Without a word exchanged we lay on our backs, my head cradled in the crook of his arm. We stared at the ceiling. I felt his lips descend into my ha
