Kiss me,” he says. His tone sharp and caustic.
“What?” I whisper.
“Here, while he watches, kiss me,” Ender says.
“But my sister is right there. My friends will be confused,” I say. “That
doesn’t make any sense.”
“Your lipstick is smeared,” Ender says. His fists fold beside him. “It’s
on his cheek.”
Screaming.
— Jul 13, 2026 01:49PM
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