“But you smell of Casteel.” I jolted at the sound of his name. His real name. “I am wearing his shirt.” “That’s not the kind of smell I’m talking about.”
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Because Hawke wasn’t his name. And we hadn’t made love. He’d fucked me.
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“Was any of it true?”
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“Poppy. Stop—” “I hate you!”
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my head doesn’t…go quiet. It replays things over and over,”
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The pain and anger were still there. But Hawke was so warm, and his embrace was…gods, it felt like hope, like a promise that I wouldn’t always feel this way
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Sometimes remembering those who died means facing your own mortality,