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Summary
“Do you ever think less of me,” he murmured, voice rough, “when I lose control like that?”
Your hands stilled. Not because the question shocked you — but because of how much fear lived under his calm tone.
You met his eyes in the mirror. “No.”
He searched your expression, almost desperately. “Not even a little?”
You wiped the last streak of paint from his jaw. “Not even at all.”
Series
- Part 8 of I'll stay even when the storm won't end