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Summary
They love him. He loves them. That has never been in question.
Yet Freodore has always known he is different, he does not have sexual desires, unable to feel what stirs so easily in others. Is love still love, if what he can give is only his heart? While the other three find warmth tangled beneath the sheets, sharing a kind of joy he cannot join, Freodore remains outside the circle, alone with the quiet ache of it.(Angst with fluff so don’t worry I think?)
