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I don’t know why I’m picturing Scotland (sing me a song of lass that is goneeeee) mixed with Miyazaki’s the castle in the sky but make it cold.
The love interest is the definition of my type :« There was a mess of black hair. He shoved it from his face, and I drew in a breath.
Sharp features. Dark brows. A prominent nose. His skin was olive, golden from sun, yet there was no warmth in his face.”