"Eustace..." "I'm not dreaming, am I? You're Roxy... you're Roxanne Evans, right?" Eustace suddenly cupped my face in his hands. The distance between us was so close that our breaths tangled in a chaotic rhythm. His eyes, hazy with alcohol, reflected a mix of emotions—confusion, disbelief, longing, and a bittersweet ache that was impossible to put into words. It felt like someone had crumpled my heart in their hand, leaving it tender and sore. "Eustace," I whispered, my voice trembling, "you’re not dreaming. It’s me. I’m Roxanne Evans—" Before I could finish, his lips brushed against mine—a kiss so light, so gentle, it felt almost fragile. I hadn’t even fully processed what was happening before Eustace pulled away. Perhaps he caught the surprise and unease on my face, the nervousness in my wide eyes. He took my hand and guided me to sit properly on the seat, his touch firm yet careful. The car had started moving, and he lowered the partition, enclosing us in a qui
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