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Kimchi was... smug. A particular flavor of smug, the kind only a hyper-competent sword-wielding cuddle freak could achieve after six solid hours of manic, obsessive architectural labor. She’d been working non-stop, no food, no breaks, no self-care—just pure love-fueled momentum, carving out a battlefield with the tenderness of an over-attached war wife.
And godsdamn, was she proud.
She’d tailored the course specifically for Irvine. It was nostalg ...
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