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Moments later, the entrées appear. A glass of orange juice is dropped in front of her. “I didn’t order this,” she tells the waiter. “For you,” he says, nodding across the terrace. “From that man who just left.” Sighing, Ash slumps in her seat and grudgingly picks up the glass of juice Nathaniel ordered. “Fuck.”
DIABETIC LOVE LANGUAGE 😭😭😭😭
“We need a task force that stops white men from starting podcasts for no reason.”
“What’s wrong with plain old Ash?” “There’s nothing plain about you.”
Nathaniel yanks Ash into his chest before she can tumble down the sheer face of the cliff.
“Hasn’t been that long.” Twelve hours and two minutes. That’s what he wants to say, but he doesn’t.
