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The first time June touched her, they were on a worn-out couch, rain hissing against the window. June’s hand didn’t dive or grope. It hovered, palm flat, over the sternum just above the swell. A question mark of warmth. She felt her own breath hitch—not from the shock of being touched, but from the reverence of the pause.

She nodded, throat tight.

“You hide,” June said, not as an accusation, but as a fact. large breasted lesbian

“I manage,” she replied.