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Summary
“Not everyone in the galaxy gets to savor those little treasures, you know.” Mon replies, taking a long swig of his whiskey, letting the burn scorch down her throat.
Perrin’s hand cups her neck, thumb stroking along her jaw. She allows herself a second to sink into the touch. “Not everyone, no.” He admits. “But we can.”
We pick up what’s left, Vel once said. And now, Perrin is all that’s left.
