Henry looked at him. Theo looked back, sitting on the rumpled-but-clean bed, hip and knee touching Henry’s. Theo naked, in firelight, shone with conviction: young and fierce and determined as a classical hero carved in marble. His hair was, unusually, mussed: standing up in places, out in others, thick and dark. His eyes were wide and green, and his right index finger had a small familiar callus from pens and bibliomancy, and Henry loved him and needed him to be safe and needed him, recklessly, wildly, overwhelmed by the roar and crash of it.
Theo had saved him in every way someone could save another person. But that wasn’t the reason.
The reason lay in Theo’s stubborn chin, and the tip of his head, and the way he let his leg rest against Henry’s. In the practicality and the decisiveness
