Bethany Hall

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I kiss him back, my hands threading into his hair, my lungs infiltrated with the heady scent of citrus as everything in me sparks to attention like the quick snap of a lightning strike. I almost expect to hear a boom of thunder, but there’s only Lucky’s sound of desperation and the feel of his lips on mine. Like softness. Like surrender. Like every whisper of home I’ve ever heard.
To Catch a Firefly
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