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Summary
Zanka tells himself that these fights are necessary—that every bruise, every drop of blood spilled beneath them, is only practical. A drive for himself, and an outlet for Jabber.
It's just convenient.
Yet there's a tension in the silence between them, in the aftermath of their mutual ruin. And when something starts growing in Jabber's chest, neither of them is prepared for what it demands.
Some loves can only be understood at the edge of destruction.