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Murphy reaches over the edge, letting his hand dangle until Connor grips it. The contact is painful like he forgot to wear his skin, like he's raw all over, inside and out. He links their fingers. “I know yer not an angel,” he whispers. “Not one of His. Yer mine.”
Another wave crashes through him, and Connor waits until he's done shaking, not letting go of his hand. “Yeah,” he says, and that is all.
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Bookmark Notes:
FUCKING beautiful!!!