when she tries and fails to change the subject with her next breath. “You know, if you pass this exam and your midterm next week, you’ll have your eighty percent in this class.” “Kinda want the girl more.” She cuts her eyes away, chastising herself. “You were supposed to be an asshole.” My chuckle is heady, and my palm slides into her hair. “Did I disappoint?” Reluctantly, she smiles up at me, but it holds that hint of heavy she always seems to carry, and I know. “You have to go.” “Yeah,” she murmurs, her fingers twitching beneath mine. “I really do.” I hate it and it takes a fuck-ton of
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