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What I had a thing against was commitment.
Baseball bats, mothers, and creepy shrines aside, I didn’t know how I’d survive Rooster in those tight fucking pants.
“Did you just spill milk all over my kid’s fucking backpack?” Trent’s voice was low, dangerous. Calm as a river just waiting to drown you.
Ached for the words to be mine, and mine alone.
It was maybe a bit territorial? I could admit that.
