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“He still has that flat, tortured look in his eyes, and I hate that I can’t take it away. “Dain?” My hands tighten on my mug. I’d rather he be a dick again, even obnoxious in his certainty, over this hollow version of himself.” — Rebecca Yarros
He still has that flat, tortured look in his eyes, and I hate that I can’t take it away. “Dain?” My hands tighten on my mug. I’d rather he be a dick again, even obnoxious in his certainty, over this hollow version of himself.