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His candlelit quarters, long gruelling days spent apart—the moment you sat atop his bed, freshened up, smelling of linen-scented soap and changed into clean clothes, your lips met. Over, and over, and over again.
He’s turned now, relighting one of the extinguished candles, when you spot a smear of lipstick along the edge of his jawline. You reach a hand, instinctively, wanting to brush away the pink smudge.
(Or, you get a little too carried away kissing Levi.)