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Day in and day out, I have to exist. To be out there and fucking stay there. In the middle of people with blurry faces and names and personalities.
“You’re a fucking nightmare,” he mutters, his throat working beneath my fingers. “Your nightmare.” “I hate you.” “I don’t.” “You’re fucking crazy.” “About you,” I whisper against his lips and claim them with a guttural moan.
Seems that Bran runs way deeper than I thought, but as he hangs on to me as if I’m his only anchor, I know that I’ll never let him go. Not even if I burn with him. For him. In him. I’d willingly catch fire if he so much as asked me to.
I love this man with everything I have and don’t have. I love him with my sane and insane parts. He’s my lotus flower. My Prince Charming. The love of my life. Mine.