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Summary
Scott had been alive long enough for the map of his heart to have been redrawn a dozen times, cities rising and falling, fashions of cruelty and grace coming into and out of style. He had slept for six centuries and woken to centuries more, a library of names he did not keep. Love had always been a rumor he studied with clinical interest; attachment was tidy, transactional, brief. When he had cared, it had always been the kind of care that could be traded away.
So he was not built for surprises.
Avid was a surprise.