It’s Sunday and Mags is at the garage space the Fallen Angels rent for band practice.
She is cursing bc the tendonitis in her wrist is flaring and it’s making the strum of her bass that usually soothes her, pain her.
The scent of blood orange rouses a familiar warmth to her thighs and before her brain can process, Luc is sitting on the drum set seat across from her.
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