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Scratch

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A little too much ice cream has Jack feeling vaguely queasy. The top of his left foot is starting to itch where he missed a spot with the sunscreen. And speaking of itching, the mosquitoes in Georgia must look at him and see a giant flashing neon sign that says “Jack’s Diner: Eat Here.” It directed one of them to a very inconvenient spot to have a big red welt.

Bitty smirks across his parents’ dinner table at Jack’s squirming discomfort. “Don’t scratch,” he says. “If you do, your ass is going to need its own plane ticket back to Providence.”

“You’re such a little shit,” Jack grumbles under his breath. Bitty just laughs, a sound Jack wishes he could record and play back every night once they’re separated by more than an arm’s length again.

He’s never been so happy in his life.