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Summary
“You don’t have to do that, you know.”
He pauses, gaze flitting down to her mouth and back up again, tongue ducking out to wet his lips. A pinkish hue fans out over her cheeks at the sight. She swallows.
“Do what?” Mel asks, trying to keep her voice even — casual.
“Whatever I ask you to do.”
“I know,” She mutters after a moment, with a shrug, “Sometimes I just want to.”or, the tale of Mel King’s messy braid