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MozLover21

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About MozLover21

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  1. MozLover21

    Chapter 7

    We have to get into Ford's secret life soon. Everyone's already had their say...I think it's only fair Ford gets his chapter too.
  2. MozLover21

    Chapter 7

    That's a great theory, but Ford is not the author. He's too busy having affairs and being poisoned by his husband to write 😂
  3. MozLover21

    Chapter 7

    After what I can only describe as an atrocious day, your comment has really put a smile on my face. The level of thought and in-depth examination is truly remarkable and always makes me re-examine my own ideas and look at the story in a variety of different ways. Thank you for all your effort 🙏🏼 From my point of view, "The Loop" definitely has more than one meaning within the story. I don't want to reveal too much, but certainly one of them is the noose Ford metaphorically placed on the neck of the marriage when he started cheating. Another interpretation has to do with something that's about to be revealed in regards to Michael, and his relationship to one of the key characters. Your circle interpretation is also spot on, with the characters all being stuck in a loop.
  4. MozLover21

    Chapter 7

    I'm not sure is this is a compliment or an insult 😂 but thank you either way, I appreciate you reading and sticking with the story.
  5. “When you’re dreaming about cats, you know it’s time to pick up the phone and dial the therapist’s number.” Patrick Patrick awoke from a strange dream to find himself in bed, alone. The room—no, the entire house felt like a living entity, and Patrick felt tiny cradled in its midst. Ford’s side of the bed was empty, which was strange because he had returned home that day. Was he so bold as to leave in the middle of the night now for one of his flings? Patrick wouldn’t put it past him. After all, an adrenaline junkie would need to keep upping the danger levels. Maybe cheating in Miami was no longer satisfactory. Maybe soon he would be cheating right in Patrick’s bed. He released the breath of air he realized he was holding in, then tried to shake the negative thoughts away. He had dreamt that Silk had caught a dream. But Silk wasn’t her name, and this wasn’t reality. It was some alternate universe, but she had caught onto to it—to its tail end, just as it was slipping by. And now she was holding it, touching it—a real life dream. Then, when she awoke from her cat nap, she could still taste the dream in her mouth. It tasted sweet, like strawberries mashed with sugar and whipped cream. She carnivorously devoured the dream. And then—poof—it was gone. And with it, Patrick awoke. The surreal nature of the dream disoriented him. He blinked a few times, then wondered what type of loser actually dreams about his cat. What was the meaning of it all? After the incident happened, it was all Patrick dreamt about for months. Like a recurring nightmare. A video in his head, stuck on loop. “Loop”, the word reminded him of the screenplay sitting in the trash downstairs. The screenplay, his marriage, his mother, and now the dream. Life felt like it was closing in on him with a bizarre sequence of events that he couldn’t fully understand. It seemed that maybe he was looking too close, unable to see the entire picture. But for some reason, the dream with Silk was very troubling to him. He grabbed the laptop laying by the side of the bed, and opened up a Google search. How could he phrase this without sounding insane. He typed in, “Dream Interpretation” then “cat”. Of course there were multiple meanings, but one of them was “searching for independence” while another one suggested the cat could represent a female in his life, while yet another one said the dream was related to the idea of “survival”. Patrick crawled out of bed and tip toed downstairs for a glass of water to clear his head. Shockingly, he noticed that his husband wasn’t out sleeping with some secret lover. No, Ford was on his laptop at the grand living room table. “What are you doing sweetheart?” he asked upon seeing Patrick. “Getting some water, I had a strange dream.” Ford quickly closed the laptop, got up and walked over to him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I couldn’t sleep so I figured I’d do some work,” he said and grabbed the glass before Patrick could get it, then poured water into it. “My poor love, what did you dream about?” he asked. “Silk,” Patrick replied, taking an embarrassed sip. Both men glanced over to the window perch, where Silk was sprawled out without any notion that someone had been dreaming about her. Meanwhile Satin woke up from her spot on the couch and pattered over to her food bowl for a late night snack. “You think it’s an omen, like maybe she’s getting sick?” Ford asked, still looking at Silk. “Don’t say that!” Patrick replied in a loud whisper. The last thing he could handle was one of the cats getting sick. “Well, it’s strange that you’d be dreaming about her. That’s all,” Ford replied, apologetically. “I looked it up, it says something about needing independence,” Patrick replied absentmindedly, before he could catch himself. But he realized his mistake almost immediately, as Ford’s body became rigid. “Independence?” he asked, his voice suddenly icy. “It was just a stupid dream,” Patrick muttered, but it was too late. The damage was done. “Something you want to tell me?” Ford asked. “What do you mean?” “Search for independence? Did you…meet someone else?” The question was so hypocritical Patrick almost laughed out loud. He stood there in stunned silence for a second. “Did I…meet someone else? Are you serious?” “Very serious. Since when are you dreaming about being independent? Aren’t we happy?” “I don’t know. Are we, are you happy? Did YOU meet someone else?” Patrick asked with more anger than he intended. Ford narrowed his eyes and studied Patrick’s face with the intensity of a paleontologist. Slowly, he relaxed. “This is silly, let’s not do this,” he said, then rubbed Patrick’s naked shoulder, evading the question altogether. “Do you still love me?” Patrick managed to ask. “Of course I do. I’ll always love you,” Ford replied, then kissed him on the lips. Patrick had missed those lips, he had missed them so much. He was weak. All he wanted was to make this man happy. “Good, because I love you so much,” he replied and kissed him more deeply. “You do?” Ford asked, gently biting into his neck. “Yes, so much,” he replied, and the two of them clumsily made love on the staircase. After Ford went back to sleep, Patrick noted the encounter in his notebook. They were still having regular sex. That was strange to Patrick. He couldn’t understand how Ford could keep up with it all. And most of all, he couldn’t understand why he would allow Ford to treat him this way. He snuck back downstairs and sat on the couch, conflicted. He didn’t want to go to sleep, the dream had left him feeling strange. He decided to dial Eloise. If anyone would know something about dream interpretation, it would be his mother. “Patrick,” she answered the phone, sounding half asleep, “Patrick, is everything alright?” “Hey mom,” he replied. “Sorry to wake you. Listen, what do you know about dreams?” “Patrick, it’s 3am,” she replied. “Sorry, I didn’t realize it was so late,” he lied. “This is important. Dreams, do you know anything about dreams?” “Have you lost your mind?” she asked, and he heard his father’s grumble in the background. “Are you having some sort of manic episode? Do I need to take you to the hospital?” “What? No, no. Dream meaning, dream interpretation, that stuff,” he replied, wondering if he really sounded as crazy as she made him out to be. “Jesus,” she replied, sounding more awake now. He could hear her feet pattering down the hallway, probably heading into the kitchen. “Well, what did you dream about?” “Silk, I dreamt that she caught a dream. It’s hard to explain really. Like catching a rat, but it was a dream instead. Like a dream within a dream. But, it was so vivid.” There was a long silence on the other end. He heard the sound of ice cubes hitting glass. “Patrick, when you’re dreaming about cats, you know it’s time to pick up the phone and dial the therapist’s number,” Eloise replied without an ounce of compassion. It was a mistake calling her and asking about this. “So you haven’t got a clue what it could mean?” “It was a dream, does it matter? More importantly, how’s your diet going?” she asked. “I’m not on a diet, mother,” he replied, growing frustrated with her tone. “Well, you should be. For your health, of course.” “Of course. Not because you don’t want to have an unsightly son,” he replied sarcastically. “Don’t be absurd,” she replied. “When did you become so difficult. You used to be the easy child,” she mused, more to herself than to him. “I’m sorry I woke you up. Go back to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, then hung up. He grabbed a chocolate candy from the bowl on the kitchen island, and as he raised the lid of the trashcan to throw away the wrapper, he noticed the screenplay staring back at him. He pulled it out. “The Loop.” What did it mean? The title didn’t make sense with the content of the screenplay. A loop typically meant a curve that crossed itself. Or an end that was connected to a beginning. Suddenly his phone lit up. He almost ignored it, thinking it was Eloise calling him back. But it was a message from his PI asking Patrick to call him when possible. He dialed the number right away. “I’ve got some news. I think I finally figured out who our dark-haired suspect is,” the voice on the other end said, and Patrick’s heart skipped a beat. He knew this was an important moment for some reason, but he had yet to figure out why.
  6. MozLover21

    Chapter 6

    🤣 😂 Remind me to never get on your bad side!!
  7. MozLover21

    Chapter 6

    😂 Yes, a healthy approach would result in 1 chapter haha
  8. “Leave confrontation to the lost souls on Jerry Springer. In our family, we suffer in dignified silence.” Eloise Eloise had snapped at Guadalupe and cut her finger on a rose thorn, all in one morning. It was an uncharacteristic loss of control for the usually calm and collected mom. She tried to keep her focus on the tasks at hand, but she couldn’t help the feeling of frustration scratching away at her brain. Patrick wasn’t answering his phone, and she worried that her words of wisdom had been lost on unreceptive ears. She wondered if perhaps she had babied him too much, what else could explain his complete lack of common sense? Someone from her generation of women-made-of-steel couldn’t understand—couldn’t even for one second fathom—the constant moping around and whimpering for attention from a spouse whose eyes were wandering in other directions. How did she manage to raise a son so weak? She finished her floral arrangement, then decided to re-clean the already pristine refrigerator, just to give herself something to do. She didn’t want to “meddle”, as Patrick loved to call it, of course she didn’t. But when she saw the obvious glaring issues her son was facing, as well as the very simple solutions that could fix everything, how could she not intervene and help her favorite child? It boggled her mind that he couldn’t just take her advice and do what was necessary in the current situation—look the other way while working on himself, instead of slowly imploding his marriage. How come he had to be such an emotional cry baby about everything? Men cheated, so what. It wasn’t the end of the world. The important thing was to figure out how to keep it all together, and not let all the hard work go to waste. Not allow things to fall apart, leaving him with absolutely nothing. If Patrick could just get over his misguided ideas of love, he might lose some weight and get his marriage together. Yes, she decided she would talk to him once again, and find a way to convince him of what he should do before his marriage was on its last gasp of breath. It wasn’t meddling, mothers simply knew best. She got into her Mercedes and hit the road. When she arrived and typed in the usual codes before entering the big house, she was shocked to find Patrick sprawled out on the living room couch. An empty wine glass nearby, a bottle of her pills alongside crackers with brie cheese on the table. The sight made her stomach turn. She briskly walked into the kitchen, poured a glass of ice cold water, then walked back to her son and emptied it all over his peacefully sleeping face. He immediately shot up in shock, the cold water electrifying his system. “What the hell!” he yelled out, as she stood calmly staring at him. “Isn’t your husband coming back today? What in the world possessed you to lay here like a drunken slob? It’s almost noon.” “What are you doing here, mo-th-er?” he asked, enunciating it as if it were a dirty word. Breaking it down into something unknown, instead of something warm and nurturing. “What am I doing here? I’m trying to save your marriage,” she replied. “Have you called that therapist whose number I gave you?” He sighed then walked over to the kitchen, grabbing a hand towel to dry off his wet face. “Not yet,” he replied, still grumpy. “I can’t believe you just did that,” he muttered to himself. “And what exactly are you waiting for?” She asked and he scoffed. “I don’t know, divine intervention. A sign. Inspiration. Something that would make me think this marriage is even worth fighting for.” She grabbed the hand towel from him, then smacked him in the face. “What the…what is your problem!” he shouted once again. “You sound truly pathetic, Patrick William Harrison. This is not how daddy and I raised you. Go take a damn shower before I speak with you. If I came in and saw you like this, I’d divorce you on the spot,” she spat out. “Go!” she shouted when he didn’t move. He sighed, irritated, but finally moved towards the bathroom. Eloise picked up the food and wine and threw it in the trash. She then rinsed off the wine glass, cleaned the table, and shooed Silk and Satin off the couch. Afterwards, she opened the fridge and pulled out a cucumber, cutting up two slices. When Patrick came out of the shower, she dragged him to the couch, pulled his head in her lap and placed the cucumber slices on his puffy red eyes. And with a cold wet cloth, she gently massaged his forehead and the rest of his face. “Marriage isn’t easy. Understanding another human being doesn’t come with instructions, as much as you wish it did. But self-destruction isn’t going to lead you anywhere. Remember anytime your daddy would go to work, even if I had spent the entire day in sweatpants, an hour before he would come back I’d shower, put on nice clothes, makeup and perfume. Presentation matters, honey. Even if you’re married for 20 years. Even if you’re comfortable. As a matter of fact, especially if you’re comfortable! Nobody is going to fancy you just because they love you. Attraction doesn’t come from obligation. Love can last, but attraction can fade if you let yourself go.” Patrick sighed, his body tense. “You make it sound like my eating and feeling miserable had led to…you know what, and not the other way around,” he complained. “No, I’m saying you’re not helping yourself get out of the situation with your response. Everything in life comes down to how you respond to it. You can make a win out of any loss, you just need to have the correct response. Giving in to misery for more than a few hours is not the correct response.” “Well, I was thinking I might confront him when he gets back. Get everything out in the open.” “Confront him? Leave confrontation to the lost souls on Jerry Springer. In our family, we suffer in dignified silence.” “Ahh yes, your passive aggressive tactics have worked wonders on dad,” Patrick replied sarcastically, making a rapid head movement that almost knocked off his cucumber slices, but Eloise held his head firmly in place. “Haven’t they? We’re still together, after all these years. We gave you two a beautiful and stable home. What else do you want? This unattainable happiness that you seek, it doesn’t exist Patrick. There is only this, and playing your cards right.” “Surely a happy marriage rests on good communication,” he countered, exasperated with her know-it-all attitude. “Says who? Divorced people and single therapists. A happy marriage rests on turning a blind eye to many things and knowing how to pick your battles. Trust me, this here is not a hill you want to die on. This…this is nothing. You still have all the cards, you have everything. The house, the husband, the dream vacations, access to his bank accounts. What are you going to have if you leave? Of course you can work for daddy, but let’s face it you’re pretty accustomed to an easy going lifestyle. You are not going to like having to support yourself. And if you think Ford is bad, just wait until you get out onto the dating scene at 35 as a gay man who’s divorced. Don’t get me wrong, I love you more than life, but trust me, you’re not going to have men knocking down your door sweetheart,” she said and he took off one of the cucumber slices and gave her a pointed look. “You know what, I’m not even insulted. I’m so used to your cold and cruel language, that this isn’t even shocking,” he said, and laughed. “It’s because of you that I’m like this,” he went on. “I’ve been doing all these evil things because I can’t open my mouth and let him know he’s hurt me. Because I’ve never seen you do that. You’ve always just swept everything under the carpet. Let it eat you up from the inside,” he said emotionally, as she patted his head with the wet cloth trying to appease him, then took off the cucumber slices and looked him in the eyes. “When it comes to marriage, I know what I’m talking about my dear. Now get up, get dressed in something nice, and cook your husband dinner before he gets home. Plaster a smile on your face, and pretend you’re extremely intrigued with every detail of his business trip to Miami. Then take care of business in the bedroom, of course. Tomorrow morning, get up before him and go work out. Sign up for a class with Chloe. Go get a facial. Get out of this house and out of your damn feelings, and the man you know and love will return to you, because he’s already yours,” she said so convincingly that anyone would have believed her. He nodded slowly then stood up, and she smiled as she heard his feet pattering upstairs into his bedroom closet. “Oh and hun, I’m leaving you a business card on the table!” she called out. “It’s this gorgeous young man I met at the nail salon. An aspiring actor, he wanted me to connect him with Ford but between you and I, that’s not a good idea. But I think you should give him a call and spend some time with him. He could teach you a thing or two about looking good!” She pulled out Jude’s business card and placed it on the kitchen island feeling extremely satisfied with herself. What would the world be like without caring mothers, she thought to herself as she walked out.
  9. MozLover21

    Chapter 5

    Yes, I'm excited to get more into Ford's story.
  10. MozLover21

    Chapter 5

    I want to see the script made into a movie 😂
  11. “Where do you go, when you leave?” Patrick Patrick tentatively opened the dreaded screenplay once again. This time he decided to read it downstairs, at the grand living room table. He wasn’t taking any chances at feeling frightened inside of his very own home. It was funny that a stack of white papers with printed words on them could make him feel so unsettled at his core. Maybe that’s what you were supposed to feel while reading a great potential horror script, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he didn’t want to risk getting freaked out in the bedroom by words on a piece of paper, like he had last time. The downstairs area of the house was a large open floor plan, with the living room table located in the middle, facing another huge glass door that gave a breathtaking view of the Hollywood hills. The massive rectangle table was made out of glass, and surrounded by 10 white canvas chairs. Silk and Satin both took up the two chairs adjacent to Patrick, and he felt comfort knowing they were nearby. In the middle stood a large vase with perfectly styled hydrangeas. Patrick was his mother’s child, after all. He opened his laptop to take notes, looked at the front page and the PO box address once again, then flipped to the page where the couple heard the sudden noise downstairs. There was an intruder, or so they thought at first. But later on it turned out that one of the men knew the intruder— knew them intimately. It was a twisty story, and midway through Patrick went to the kitchen to brew some coffee and give his head a rest. He didn’t understand why the screenplay was having such an effect on him. Maybe because it dealt with two married men going through issues, which is something he himself was grappling with. Whatever it was, it made him feel uneasy in his skin. Yet he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He wondered whether he should recommend it to Ford or toss it. He felt like the screenplay was cursed, and that the curse had somehow bled onto him. He added some honey to his coffee, then thought about his husband, who was once again in Miami, most likely cavorting with his flavor of the month—Jude. Patrick tried to force himself to make some type of decision. If he could just confront his husband, face whatever was going on, head on. If he could just take a step in some kind of direction, whether it was to leave or to try to reconcile. If he could do more than just wait. Because what exactly was he waiting for? Did he hope that Ford would simply come to his senses, appreciate what he had, and cease all of his cheating ways? Rationally, there was no way that was going to happen. His addiction was far too advanced. It wasn’t a one time thing, he was a chronic cheater. He’d probably need a heap of professional help to break his destructive habits. And then what? The best Patrick could hope for was that he wouldn’t ever give in to his temptations again. But it would lead to a life of constantly looking over his shoulder, checking his phone, and second guessing his whereabouts, not to mention all the feelings of not being good enough. Patrick knew why he was so terrified of making a step, because any step he’d take would ultimately lead to him and Ford splitting up, and for some reason he couldn’t stomach the idea, couldn’t imagine life without the man whom he loved so much. But he also knew himself, and understood that he had limits, and when those limits would reach a certain level, there would be no turning back. That was the thing with Ford, he had always underestimated Patrick. Always assumed him to be the nice and good boy who wouldn’t make any trouble. Kind, nurturing, sweet and good-hearted. Those almost seemed like insults to him now. Clearly what Ford really wanted was a good slap in the face. He tried to imagine living on his own again and felt an emptiness inside his stomach. Who would help Ford find his car keys? The man could never find anything on his own. “Honey, have you seen my *insert object*?” was pretty much his catchphrase. And Patrick didn’t mind mothering him, in fact he found it kind of charming. But now, just like with the mushy text messages, he understood the deeper meaning behind it. Creating a false sense of someone needing you, of you being indispensable to them, lull them into security. Ford was a master at doing all the right things. Was he a sociopath, or was he just a sex addict? Patrick couldn’t figure it out. “Tell me your fantasies,” he had once asked his husband. “You’re my fantasy,” Ford replied smoothly, then kissed Patrick on the forehead, as if he were a sweet puppy and not a naked man in his bed. And when Patrick would ask him if he had noticed his weight gain, he would get the usual, “I haven’t noticed honey.” Of course he hadn’t. He wouldn’t have noticed if Patrick shaved his head and bleached his pubic hair pink. He was oblivious. Patrick was a ghost to him. Or maybe more of a maid. He picked up his phone and dialed Chloe, one of his best friends. Chloe spoke with a delightful French accent that his mother Eloise adored, and worked at a fancy hotel spa. She had seen her fair share of men bringing in mistresses and stepping out on their wives. Maybe she could understand Patrick’s current situation. “Patty!” she squealed on the other end. Patrick walked up the floating staircase and into the upstairs bathroom. “Hey Chloe girl, how are you?” he asked, taking in his appearance in the mirror. He was gaining weight by the minute, and his face was now breaking out in acne from all the junk he was consuming. “How are you?” she asked. He couldn’t think of anyone else he could tell. “Not so great. So you know how sometimes in movies a character might start doing something a little unhinged, but it starts off kind of cute and quirky, but then it turns into a bizarre and weird obsession that maybe ends in someone else’s death?” he asked. “Uhh, yeah, what about it?” she replied right away. “I, well…I might be in the middle of that, right now,” he confessed. To his surprise, she laughed. “You’re too cute Patty. What’s on your mind, what’s going on?” she asked, her hoarse voice sounding curious. He opened the bathroom cabinet, and took out a yellow bottle of his mother’s pain killers. “Have you ever wanted to hurt someone you love, just so they could feel the pain that you’re feeling?” he asked. “Uh ah, marriage troubles?” “Yeah,” he finally admitted out loud, “Marriage troubles.” He walked back downstairs, pill bottle in hand, and approached Ford’s beloved wine wall. He picked a red at random, and with malicious glee hoped it was an expensive vintage that Ford was saving for some special occasion, then went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass. He popped a pill in his mouth, then chased it down with the expensive tasting wine. “You want me to come over?” she asked, “I’ve got chocolate.” He laughed, thankful for the fact that he had a friend who wouldn’t judge his marriage, his weight gain, or his overall miserable mood. “I’ve got wine. Can’t wait to see you.” “Hang tight, I’ll be there in thirty,” she replied and hung up. Patrick walked to the living room where the screenplay sat ominously on top of the large table. He picked it up, then threw it in the trash. It was just words, words on a page. Anyone could have written in. People experienced similar things all the time. His situation wasn’t unique. The words on the pages weren’t unique. Suddenly, the doorbell connected to the front gate rang. It was too early for it to be Chloe, so Patrick approached the door cautiously, Satin following closely behind him, while Silk stayed safely tucked away on he window perch. He looked at the camera and saw a huge bouquet of flowers on the screen. “Who is it?” he asked through the speaker. “Flower delivery,” the man replied. Patrick buzzed the man in, then signed for the rose and lily arrangement. It was elegant and made him think of a wedding. The note on the flowers read, “Miss you - F.” He wanted to throw them out but didn’t want to waste a perfectly nice arrangement. He took out the note and decided to give them to Chloe for her quaint one-bedroom apartment. Then, out of nowhere, he felt the urge to hear his husband’s voice. He picked up the phone and dialed. It would be late in Miami, and he wasn't sure if the man would even pick up. But surely enough, a groggy voice answered the phone. “Everything okay baby?” Ford asked, and Patrick wondered if he was in his room alone, or with a fling. “Everything’s fine, I just wanted to hear your voice,” he said, finishing off his glass of wine, then swiftly pouring another. “Mmm, I’ll be home tomorrow,” Ford replied. Patrick swirled the wine in his mouth. Did Ford’s lovers know he was married? Would they care if they did? What would it matter to beautiful Jude to know that there was a sad middle aged man gaining weight and stalking his every move as he compared and contrasted himself to the perfect blonde. “Where do you go, when you leave?” Patrick asked, his skin feeling warm from the wine rush. His head light, the room revolving around him slowly. Memories with Ford floating by like paper planes. The day they met, the day they got married, the day they moved into this house. This house that now felt like a golden cage. “I’m in Miami honey,” Ford replied, not understanding the real question. “Are you sure everything is alright?” he asked, suddenly sounding more awake. “Everything’s fine, Chloe’s here and I just had too much wine. Silly me,” Patrick replied. “Are you two having fun?” he asked, his curiosity sparked. Patrick could sense that note of uncertainty, that tinge of jealousy on the tip of his tongue. It was so irrational and so ironic that he almost laughed out loud. “So much fun,” he replied, refusing to put his husband’s mind at ease right away. Ford was silent. “But I’m cutting it short and heading to sleep now. I proooomise,” he added, slightly slurring. “Good,” his husband replied, pleased. “Say hi to Chloe. I’ll be back tomorrow. I love you,” he said, and Patrick hung up the phone instantly, not wanting to have to answer back. He fed Silk and Satin their dinner, then poured himself another glass. By the time Chloe rang the doorbell to the house, he was fast asleep.
  12. MozLover21

    Chapter 4

    Yes it is! 😬
  13. MozLover21

    Chapter 4

    I'm happy to hear that 🙏🏼
  14. MozLover21

    Chapter 4

    You have good reason to be worried 😬
  15. MozLover21

    Chapter 4

    Michael is.
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