“Juliette,” I gasp, “please—” She runs her free hand through my hair, tugs my head back so I’m forced to meet her eyes. And then she leans into my ear, her lips almost touching my cheek. “Do you love me?” she whispers. “What?” I breathe. “What are you doing—” “Do you still love me?” she asks again, her fingers now tracing the shape of my face, the line of my jaw. “Yes,” I tell her. “Yes I still do—” She smiles. It’s such a sweet, innocent smile that I’m actually shocked when her grip tightens around my arm. She twists my shoulder back until I’m sure it’s being ripped from the socket. I’m
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