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His gaze dipped. I wasn’t wearing anything but a pale nightshirt. Rory was antsier than usual. Bright in the cheeks, shoulders tight, hand moving invisible puppets in this pocket. “There’s a place,” he murmured. “Not far. It’ll help with the restlessness.”
“Will I need my shoes?”
Finally a smile. He tried to hide it, biting down on his bottom lip, but he was a poor actor—the entirety of his body eased. “Not this time.”