The degree of his passion shocked even him, and he was incredibly aware of how distasteful it was for a 23 year-old man to pine, wither and swoon over an officer who probably couldn’t even match his name with his face. Webster was disgusted with himself, but his infatuation with Captain Ron Speirs persisted until he had whole volumes of sonnets and poetry stashed away in his duffel bag and guarded more fanatically than the Holy fucking Grail.
Yes, indeed—if love was a flame, Webster was burnt to a crisp.
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