He shifts until just the side of his face is pressed against my chest. Then he sniffs, trying to choke back his tears. “God, I’m so angry.” My fingers stroke lightly down the vertebra of his neck. “I know.” He groans again, clinging to me hard enough to crack my ribs. “Be angry all you want. I’ve got you.” But after those three confessions, he’s silent except for the sound of his muted crying. I don’t know how long we stay like that, limbs twisted together. I stroke his hair, his back, humming under my breath as he grieves. Even once he’s calm, he doesn’t pull away. He lets me hold him, lets
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