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Summary
Sandalphon places one hand gingerly on Gran’s chest and pushes him back down against the mattress and the pillows. In an instant his words have frozen into ice, “There is nothing talk about, Singularity.” The ice chills his blood and sends his spine tingling in anticipation. He lines his words with steel, edging his fight or flight into overdrive. Gran finds himself hanging off every syllable, relishing in the way Sandalphon forces himself to spit out “Singularity” like they’re enemies all over again.