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HUNDRED AND TWELVE

Anders wrapped a hand around her waist, pulling her flush against him, as they moved slowly to Stephen Sanchez’s “Until I Found You.” He pushed her out of his embrace slowly, pulling her again onto him in a Cuban dip. Their eyes met, tenderness tugging their hearts together in a choreography no one else could see.

In their worlds, only the both of them existed, hearts spinning, hands craving, eyes searching, body moving to the rhythm of the music playing softly in the background.

The crowd watched them, with lips moving and hands tapping away at keypads. A few people raised their phones, lights flashing in the distance. Of course, their friends would only buy the stories on two strong grounds: online articles from verified sources and pictorial evidence thrown right in their faces.

Veil sighed as she placed her head on Anders' chest, getting lost in the moment. It was all a plot. No one knew that better than she. But she might as well enjoy it since there was nothing else to do. An
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