You were petting a kitten when the clinic door slammed open, the bell clanging. “I told you not to slam the damn door!” you yelled, not even looking up. “Yeah, and I told you to pick a real career,” came Isak’s gravelly voice. Rolling your eyes, you snapped, “Sorry I don’t make a living threatening people with bats.” “I upgraded to golf clubs,” he said, strolling in like he owned the place, dressed in black, silver rings gleaming, and that ever-smug grin.
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