Credence
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Read between August 27 - August 30, 2025
15%
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I can’t torture someone who won’t fight back.
16%
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I mean, seriously. Do these men ever get completely dressed?
22%
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Kaleb’s black hair against his sun-kissed face. Jake’s toned shoulders and narrow waist. The veins in Noah’s forearms and . . . I straighten, swallow, and turn around, quickly leaving the room. I need to get out of here.
24%
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Loooooove the tribal tattoos. Wonder which tribe he belongs to. I almost snort.
25%
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If you don’t put yourself out there, you don’t hurt.
26%
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Your parents never gave you anything sweet. That’s why you’re not.
26%
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But I don’t want to stay here and be noticed, either, because their world is just a little worse with me in it.
31%
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Everyone contemplates suicide at some point, even if it’s just for a minute. And one thing is usually the root cause. Loneliness.
31%
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She needs a lot, and all of them are things you can’t buy. She needs to laugh and get drunk. She needs to be tickled and cuddled and carried and teased. I don’t want to see her cry, but if she does, I want her to know there’s comfort. She has a home.
41%
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I’ve lost the stomach to live in a way that isn’t genuine.
42%
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It’s a feeling. A feeling. Not a place.
44%
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He doesn’t have anyone in that house to really connect to. I never really saw that before.
59%
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I wonder if he even realizes. He let me hear him.
60%
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“I was going to make love to you,” he repeats. And I finally get it. Not screw. Not fuck. He was going to make it matter.
66%
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“I’m actually the only man in this house who hasn’t hit you,” he states. “And I’m the one you don’t want. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
83%
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Credence. I’m close enough to read it now. It means “belief as to the truth of something.”
94%
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“I can’t believe you’re here,” I tell him just above a whisper. “You actually left Colorado.” “It was time,” he says. I suck in a breath, his words hitting me like a truck. What? I slide off the tire and turn to face him, not believing what I just heard. Deep but soft. Clear and strong. He spoke. Kaleb spoke. Walking around the tire, he steps toward me. “My home is where you are,” he says quietly.