He shakes his head in disagreement but doesn’t voice it, just holds my face. His gaze flicks between the wound and my lips, like he wants to kiss me but is afraid I won’t let him. Reaching for the back of his neck, I pull his mouth to mine. I don’t care that it’s morning and both of our breaths could peel paint. I want this connection to him. To show him I don’t think less of him because of his father, that it changes nothing, that I want more of him. He kisses me gently, like he’s afraid I’ll break. Or maybe he’s afraid he will break. It’s a different side of him, one that throws me off way
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