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Summary
This little corner of the world, he thought, had always been his. His shell. His locked rooms. The place he'd built to contain the parts of himself he never let anyone see, the parts that didn't belong anywhere else. The only space where he'd allowed himself to be soft, to be slow, to be a fleshbag capable of hurts and wants.
It was his body, this cottage. And Ilya had made himself at home in every room.