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... Angel sits across from Moon, his hands twisted together in his lap, fingers winding and unwinding in a rhythm of quiet distress.
His eyes dart to the man before him, then away, then down at the food he cannot bring himself to touch. The steam rises from the pasta in lazy spirals, carrying the scent of garlic and herbs, but his stomach is a knot he cannot untie.
He doesn’t understand why Moon Arden—the Moon Arden who commands rooms with his presence—would ask him to lunch.
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