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Conversation and gifts, a few well-placed insults. Ideal, really.
He closed his mouth. If it can be believed.
Oh, how words love Hawkes. They wrap around the unexpected inflections of his voice, eager, offering their best cadence and lilt and soul. They know him well, and he them. Almost as if words are the one thing in his life he has never had to push away. He speaks words the way they pound in my chest. And it feels like a miracle, finding such a dear part of oneself walking around in someone else’s body.
I understood. My cheeks warmed. I thought perhaps setting the house on fire was a reasonable distraction.
There is no feeling quite like finishing a book that you’ve loved. I expect to feel nothing less.
