“I can tell when you’re having a silent crisis in your mind, you know,” his voice breaks me out of my thoughts. He’s staring at me with an unreadable expression, like he can’t quite figure out how I’m feeling so he doesn’t know what emotion to display to me in response. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Wendy.” I want to. God, I want to. But I’m scared. No one ever used to ask me what I’m thinking. I grew up being told exactly how to think, what to think, and when to think it. I was never given the option to speak my mind without consequence. And now here I am, in bed with Fitz Higgins, a man I
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