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Summary
“You keep scratching your neck,” Aine says.
Shona reaches up again. There’s nothing obvious there physically, no bump or bruise or cut, and she can’t see anything either when she tries to arch her head around. Aine climbs off the couch, shoving her laptop under the back cushions, and walks around her.
“Are you falling in love again?” Aine snorts. She traces her finger along the mark. It’s faded, a blurry mess that isn’t quite clear, but she recognizes what it’s going to turn into.