My thigh is resting on his, and he’s tucked his knee up between my legs. I’m stroking his hair. It’s still wet. He smells so good, and it isn’t just soap—it’s Baz. He smells cold and clean. Like running water. Like damp wood. He doesn’t smell like anything living, but he doesn’t smell like anything dead either. I’ll never get enough of it. My lungs won’t hold on to it—they betray me every time I exhale. Baz scratches between my wings like he’s scratching a dog between its ears. It sends a shiver down my spine. I try to move closer. Our chins bump. “I’m done with Smith-Richards,” I say. “Good,”
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