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613 B
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613 B
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The spiced coffee is sweet on my tongue, made with a generous dollop of honey. The way Crescentia always orders it. We sit on the pavilion like we have a thousand times before, steaming porcelain mugs cradled in our hands to ward off the chill in the evening air. For a moment, it feels just like every time before, a comfortable silence hanging in the dark air around us. I’ve missed talking to her, but I’ve missed this, too—how we could sit together and not feel the need to fill the silence with meaningless small talk. But that’s silly. How can I miss Cress when she’s sitting right in front of me?
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