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Summary
Whoever wrote we accept the love we think we deserve never met him before he died – he drank love and admiration like it was mother’s milk, stored it inside his heart as if it were a treasure chest and every dotation a precious gem to add to his private collection. He needed it to live, to get through every day anew, because every day had been a struggle against an intolerant crowd, never accepting him for who he was, who he wanted to be, or who he loved.
Being loved was never his problem. Not before, and not now.
At least not until Sebastian strode into his life.