He finally turns to face us. His hands are at his sides, and his eyes are downcast, their dark lashes revealing only a small, hooded glimpse of tormented hazel. But it’s not the posture of someone defeated or reluctant; it’s more like the stillness of a prince waiting for the weight of his father’s crown on his head. It’s the restraint of youthful power and deep anguish—a deceptive calm held only through his strength of will while he decides what he’ll do. And we’re all in captivity to it, all of us enthralled and possessed as a muscle ticks in his cheek and his lips press together in
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