“Who said you’re annoying?” “Everyone.” The word comes easy, like she thinks it’s obvious. “Who?” I ask again, and even I can hear the demand in my tone. I want names. And addresses. “Kids at school. My brothers. I… They mean well, I’m just… annoying.” “You’re not annoying.” “Yes, I am. It’s fine—I’m the baby of seven kids. I was born to be annoying. I’ve also accepted this fact.” “You’re not annoying, and if I hear you say that again, I’m taking you over my knee.” Her eyes go wide with shock and surprise, and I know she’s a virgin and we have a lot of other “firsts” to go over, but fuck, I
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