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Summary
His fingers traced step-by-step down the side of Heathcliff’s face, feather-light against rough cheeks that almost scraped against his touch; yet still remaining so, so warm. He wants to burrow under his skin, his flesh, his blood; wrap himself in the warmth and sleep this lifetime away.
Or, Hong Lu loves, and wants, and loves.
Or, 67 pwp with (maybe) ________
