We stay like that for an hour, soaking in the warmth of the sun through our sweaters. Fletcher on his back, one arm triangled behind his head, and the other holding his book up to the sky. And I am on my stomach, kicking my feet in the air while finishing the last of the Dollanganger children. The breeze ruffles my pages a little, chill bumps tickling up my spine. Beside me, Fletcher hums softly—quietly—like he barely even knows he’s doing it. My eyes lock in on my current page, but my brain doesn’t take any words in. No runaway endings or plot twists can be kept in my head right now. Nothing
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