Hunky Heroes, rescuing distressed women, captive princesses, and girls without wheels since 1684. p. 450

So many things become beautiful when you really look.

My heart is drumming in my chest so hard it aches, but it's the good kind of ache, like the feeling you get on the first real day of autumn, when the air is crisp and the leaves are all flaring at the edges and the wind smells just vaguely of smoke - like the end and the beginning of something all at once.

This is the language of the world before—a world of chaos and confusion and happiness and despair—before the blitz turned streets to grids, cities to prisons, and hearts to dust.

No one can tell us no. No one can make us stop. We have picked each other and the rest of the world can go to hell.

Maybe it would be better if we didn't love. If we didn't lose, either. If we didn't get out hearts stomped on, shattered; if we didn't have to patch and repatch it until we're like Frankenstein monsters, all sewn together by who knows what

It's funny, isn't it? When you are young you just want to be old, and then later you wish you could go back to being a kid.