Ophelia was dying.

At least, she felt like she was.

She sat on the pavement, breathing in and out. Candy-coloured red buses whizzed by, and she could hear the ding of bicycles. Her head was throbbing. She had the feeling that if she poked it with a wrought iron fence, liquid would spurt out.

A wave of nausea hit her.

Ophelia gripped her empty shopping bag, pinching the bridge of her nose. She couldn't remember the last time that she had a flu, but she must have picked something up on the flight from Canada. Stupid planes. Stupid germs.

And stupid her.

What had she been thinking, trying to go to Tesco?

She sighed, massaging her temples. Good lord. She had been willing to die for bananas and a box of chocolate digestives. That had to be a new low.

Get up, she told herself firmly. Walk back to your halls.

Slowly, her feet complied.

Ophelia stumbled back towards Astor College, narrowly avoiding a collision with an irritated florist. Her ears were ringing, and black spots danced in front of her vision. Oh, god, this was bad. This was really bad. What if she lost consciousness? What if she collapsed in the middle of the road?

There would be no dashing John Willoughby to help her.

More likely, Ophelia thought wryly, she would be run over by a car. Or trampled under the feet of impatient London commuters.

Brilliant.

Mercifully, Ophelia reached her bedroom, collapsing unceremoniously on the bed. The white ceiling swam above her, shifting like summer clouds.

She needed paracetamol.

Stat.

Ophelia picked up her phone, groaning as the white light blinded her. But who could she call? Digby was away on a boys' holiday in Ibiza, and Louise was stuck in classes all day. There was Millie, Ophelia supposed, but she had young children; it hardly seemed fair to call her and demand that she drive over with drugs.

She sighed, pausing as her eyes landed on a familiar name.

No. She couldn't do it.

Her head gave a painful throb, and Ophelia winced. Oh, screw it. Dignity? She'd never heard of her. She hit the dial button.

He picked up on the first ring. "Ophelia?"

"Hi."

"Are you alright?" he demanded. "You sound weird."

"I need a favour." She closed her eyes. "How fast can you get paracetamol to my room?"

Andrew was panicking.

He sprinted through Astor College, shoving aside terrified first years. Several people turned to stare as he jabbed the lift button repeatedly, although Andrew suspected that this had less to do with his occasional appearances in a tabloid and more because he looked certifiably deranged. He gripped the package of paracetamol tightly.

She was sick.

But how sick?

He stepped into the lift, his head swimming. Admittedly, Andrew knew he was being irrational; he tended to jump to worst-case scenarios ever since his father's diagnosis. Still. He was currently picturing Ophelia passed out on the floor. Or already dead.

It did nothing to calm his nerves.

He sprinted out of the lift, slamming on her door.

"Ophelia!" he shouted. "Ophelia, open the damn—"

The door swung open.

Andrew stared. He hadn't seen her in almost a month, and it was a shock to the system. He had almost forgotten how beautiful she was; the exact wine-color of her hair, and the heart-shaped mole on her cheek.

Right now, however, she looked dreadful.

Ophelia's skin was flushed, and her eyes were bright with fever. He watched, horrified, as she let out a hacking cough, sagging against the door frame.

"Andrew," she breathed. "Thanks for coming."

"Christ, Ophelia."

She smiled weakly. "That bad, huh?"

"You shouldn't even be standing."

He scooped her up, ignoring her protests as he carefully placed her down on the bed. Ophelia glared up at him.

"Don't touch me, idiot," she said sternly. "You'll get sick, too."

"I have a great immune system," he lied. "I'll be fine."

Fortunately, Ophelia seemed too weak to protest further. Andrew ripped open the pack of paracetamol, grabbing the empty water glass on her bedside table. He swallowed as he took in her lamp. Still broken.

Andrew's eyes flicked to the wall that he had pinned her against in October. Unbidden, images of that night surfaced in his mind. Her breathy moans, the taste of her mouth, the way her body felt underneath him—

No.

He shook his head.

"Stay put, alright?" he said hoarsely. "I'll be back in a moment."

Andrew crossed to the kitchen, breathing hard as he leaned against the counter. What the hell was happening to him? He was losing it. Officially. For fuck's sake; he could hardly be in the same room as Ophelia for more than five minutes without fantasizing about kissing her senseless.

"Get a grip," he muttered.

He filled the glass of water, his hands shaking slightly. He was here to take care of Ophelia, Andrew reminded himself firmly. As a friend. He could bloody well get his raging hormones under control.

Immediately.

He forced himself to breathe, pushing open the door to Ophelia's room.

She was curled up on her side like a potato bug, her hands pillowed under her cheek. He sat gingerly on the edge of her bed, offering the pill and glass of water.

"Here."

"Thanks," she muttered. "Can you...?"

She looked at him entreatingly. Immediately, Andrew understood. "Of course," he said gruffly, helping her into a seated position. "Do you think it's the flu?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe we should get you to hospital."

She shook her head, and then winced. "I'll be fine."

He watched as Ophelia took the pill, battling against his growing urge to just toss her over his shoulder and drag her to a GP. He didn't get to decide things like that. He wasn't her boyfriend, Andrew reminded himself sternly. He wasn't anything but some bloke she slept with for practice before dating the love of her life.

Speaking of which.

"Where's Digby?" he grunted.

"On holiday."

"When did he leave?"

"Yesterday." She coughed. "I'm fine, though. Really."

Andrew felt an odd mix of fury and relief prickle at his chest. He was happy that she had called him, obviously, but on the other hand, he could have thrown Digby into the Thames. What the hell had he been thinking, leaving her like this?

He would be having words with him. As soon as Digby stepped off the plane.

There was a long, awkward pause.

Ophelia broke first. "About what happened in Scotland—"

"Can we draw a line under it?" Andrew interrupted. "And move on?"

The last thing Andrew wanted was to rehash how Ophelia chose Digby over him. After sleeping with him. God, he felt sick even thinking the words. Andrew swallowed, twisting his hands into the bed sheets. Ophelia loosed a breath.

"Okay," Ophelia agreed. "Yeah. Let's just forget about it." She let out a hacking cough, doubling over. "Oh, gosh. Sorry."

Andrew looked at her anxiously. "You're not going to die, are you?"

He meant the words sincerely, but Ophelia smiled. "I hate to break it to you, Andrew, but we're all dying."

"That's not funny."

She smiled weakly. "Tough crowd."

Ophelia let out a hacking cough, raising her hand to her mouth. He caught a flash of her tattoo — the black ellipsis — and before Andrew was fully aware of what he was doing, he had caught her hand, turning it over gently. Her skin was fever hot.

Carefully, Andrew stroked his thumb over the skin, making each dot disappear. Ophelia looked up at him with dazed brown eyes.

"What are you doing?" she whispered.

Andre's heart was racing. He didn't know what he was doing; that was exactly the problem. He normally felt so in control. Everything he did was exact. Deliberate.

But he didn't trust himself around Ophelia. Sometimes, Andrew felt like she was shaking him apart, like a cat pulling at a ball of yarn; he was unraveling at a terrifying rate, and he didn't know how to stop it.

His phone dinged. Andrew dove for it, grateful for the distraction. Eleanora's name popped up, and he instinctively tilted the screen away from Ophelia.

Still on for dinner later? x

Andrew paused. Ah, shit. He had completely blanked on dinner. And there was no way that he was leaving Ophelia.

Sorry, he wrote. Something came up. Dinner tomorrow instead? x

Her reply was immediate.

Fine.

No kiss on that one. Andrew sighed, shoving the phone into his pocket. Ophelia gave him a searching look. "Was that anything important?"

"Just my Mum," Andrew lied. "Checking in." He rose to his feet, surveying her organized bookshelves. "Christ, you have a lot of books."

Ophelia smiled wryly. "Well, I do love reading."

"Why?"

He turned to face her. Ophelia looked surprised, as if nobody had ever thought to ask her that before. "Well, there's something special about books, isn't there?"

"How so?"

"Books are the closest thing we have to magic. An author can take an entire world and plant it into a reader's head without ever speaking to her." She shook her head. "If that's not telepathy, then I don't know what is."

Andrew considered this. He supposed it was true; as an artist, he could paint an image so that he and the viewer were staring at the same scene: a drizzling day in London, or a small café in Paris, packed with striped awnings and fresh croissants.

An author, on the other hand, could only paint images with words; it was a kind of mental telepathy.

Andrew turned back to the books, running a finger over the spines.

"Which one?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

He looked at her. "Which one shall I read to you?"

Ophelia's mouth popped open. She looked about as shocked as if Andrew had suggested finding harnesses and scaling the side of Tower Bridge. Still, she recovered quickly.

"You pick," she said.

"A Tale of Two Cities?"

Ophelia loved that book. If Andrew had a pound for every time she quoted it, he could have bought Buckingham Palace by now. To his surprise, Ophelia flushed.

"I left it in Canada," she said.

"You did?"

"Mmm."

Andrew frowned. Odd. He turned back to the shelves, plucking out a book at random. "What about Persuasion?"

"Perfect."

He kicked off his shoes, climbing into bed beside her. The afternoon light was fading now, casting the room in shadow. To his surprise, Ophelia rested her head against his chest, her red hair curtaining her face.

"Can you start where I left off?" she mumbled.

"Sure."

Andrew flipped to the bookmark, praying that she couldn't hear the way that his heart was pounding against his rib cage. "I can no longer listen in silence," he murmured. "I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach."

He paused. Oh, hell.

It was a love scene, wasn't it?

Ophelia half-raised her head. "Andrew?"

"Sorry." He cleared his throat. "You pierce my soul," he continued. "I am half agony, half hope. Tell me that I am not too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. I offer myself to you with a heart even more your own than when you broke it almost eight years and a half ago."

Ophelia yawned, her eyes fluttering closed. Her breaths were coming evenly now, rising and falling in waves. She murmured slightly, shifting in his arms, and Andrew couldn't resist the urge to stroke her hair back from her face.

"Keep reading," she whispered.

So he did.

A/N: Happy Saturday all!

Sooo if you can't already tell, I'm a HUGE Jane Austen fan, and this passage from "Persuasion" is one of my favourites (yes, I'm a cheesy romantic at times even if — like Andrew — I try hard to deny it lol).

What did everyone think about Ophelia lying about her book? Should she come clean, or is she right not to risk Eleanora's wrath?

Affectionately,

J.K.