He wiped my scraped shin with the antiseptic wipe, and I dug my fingernails into his shoulder with a wince. It burned worse than acetone on a paper cut. “Right. You’d go for something Victorian. Lots of arches, iron railings, churchlike steeply-pitched rooftop.” That was freakishly accurate. “Are you able to read people’s minds? Like that Mel Gibson romcom? Is that, like, a medical condition?” “Absolutely not.” He patted my shin clean of blood and dirt with the tenderness of a loving parent, and I dug my nails deeper into those jacked-up deltoids, this time not because it hurt but because I
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