But it was impossible not to love him in the silence, impossible not to worship the dozens of little movements of him. The way he worked his fingers into the spaces between hers. The way he lifted his gaze to the stars and studied them while his free hand moved along her arm, as though he was retracing constellations against her skin. The way he noticed her shivering, and then without a word he made a bed of that blanket she’d been wrapped up in earlier, and then he retrieved her coat and draped it around her. He brought a second blanket from somewhere, too, and he wrapped this around them
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