Fletcher read every book Flora gave him at least twice before they met up. But he would happily reread it a third time if it meant lying next to her in a park, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. A gasp here, a whispered ‘no,’ to each plot twist. Taking her sweet time reading those last few pages, like maybe she wasn’t ready for this to be over either. And, when her breaths slowed into soft, kitten-like purrs—eyes closed and body lax—he allowed himself to really look at her. The freckles on her nose. The tight, big curls resting over her shoulders. The tiny prickles of goose bumps
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