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It’s the panic that comes with expectation, that’s the problem, rising in her chest like oil on water. These perfect, golden things like Christmas lights and snow-white Prague and quaint little market stalls and Villanelle’s fingers curling around Eve’s wrist – and the instinct is to toss them away. Rend deep, screeching holes through them, quickly, quickly. Before they rot her teeth, before the goodness starts to hurt.