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maybe war was universal, no matter whether our blood ran black or red.
His grip was rough and scarred. Hands that carried lifetimes.
Maybe we’re all just animals, I thought to myself, as I dozed off that night, my grip still loosening around Atrius’s presence. It’s nice not to sleep alone.
“Because we lose the past so fast. We should cling to those who made us who we are.
The last thing I remembered before sleep took me was my hand curling around his—a mindless impulse, like a compass drifting north.
I wondered if I looked beautiful. There was a certain appeal to leaving behind a pretty corpse.
The fight will always be worth it.
From the doorway, I had missed it. The little chair. The easel. The carefully arranged line of paint jars. “It could be yours, too,” he said, somewhat awkwardly. “If you wanted.”
Stop what a sweetheart
