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When she dreamed again, it was of Stiles. He was a flame, pure of orange and yellow mirth. She dreams he danced around their wedding altar, laughing as it caught onto the flowers. She dreams that there are bodies, burnt bodies, instead of guests here. She dreams she is there, that she falls to her knees and he sees her. She dreams she ask him why.
She dreams he turns to her, face shifting bizarrely to smile, “It’s the closest I can be to the sun.”
- Part 3 of At Heart I'm Good, I Swear