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... hing to do with mourning.
She looked back at him with the expression she’d developed specifically for these moments — not cold, which he’d push back on, not warm, which he’d take as encouragement, just — level. A face that gave him nothing to hold.
His hand found her hip.
Not her elbow. Not her arm. Her hip, through the fabric of the mourning dress, the fingers pressing with a familiarity he hadn’t earned and was claiming anyway.
She stepped sideways. His hand str ...
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