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... we usually fall into where we hold hands. No.

Marcus hasn’t looked at me in the last ten minutes. His jaw’s clenched, one hand gripping the steering wheel like it might fly away if he lets go.

The air between us feels heavier.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. His expression is flat, but not calm. It’s the kind of blank that’s hiding something—something sharp and too close to the surface.

"Marcus," I say softly.

He doesn’t respond right away. Hi ...

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