“And what of you?” He pulled her close. Her hands came up, around his neck, her fingers sliding into his hair, and he fought the urge to close his eyes and bask in the touch. “What would you like me to be?” she asked, her beautiful blue eyes meeting his, seeing into him. He didn’t want some fantasy version of her. He didn’t need it. She was the fantasy. Heart pounding, he shook his head. “Whatever you wish to be,” he whispered. “Whatever makes you happy.” “A seamstress then,” she whispered, her gaze falling to the weave of his topcoat, one hand sliding down to stroke the fabric. “Mending
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