She heard the very beginning of a smile in his voice--a fetal smile--and it very nearly killed her.

Well,” she said. “I’m frustrated.” “Don’t make me angry-kiss you.” “Give me the laundry.” “Tempers rising, faces flushed … This is how it happens.

I dare you to call Ask-A-Nurse and tell them you feel a presence in your womb region.

Ah." He set down his backpack and pulled out their notebook. "You're working on your final project?" "Indirectly," Cath said. "What does that mean?" "Have you ever heard sculptors say that they don't actually sculpt an object; they sculpt away everything that isn't the object?" "No." He sat down. "Well, I'm writing everything that isn't my final project, so that when I actually sit down to write it, that's all that will be left in my mind.

The next night, Lincoln parked his Corolla right next to The Courier's front door. I'm here, he thought. Find me. Follow me. Make this inevitable.

That’s because you ooze preemptive leave-me-alone death rays.

It felt good to be writing in her own room, in her own bed. To get lost in the World of Mages and stay lost. To not hear any voices in her head but Simon's and Baz's. Not even her own. This was why Cath wrote fic. For these hours when their world supplanted the real world.