Cole studied me, studied the wayward curl swaying across my forehead like a carrot on a string. The fine leather gloves he’d held out for me now creaked between one white-knuckled fist. I knew my rabbit. Knew his need to comb the curl away if only so he could touch some part of me. There was a time when not touching him felt like dying. Back when sleeping with each other seemed innocent to watching eyes, and when bolting our door became a requirement when we were old enough to be judged for it. When as teens we walked each other to the bathroom hand in hand in the middle of the night, because
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