“My heart is your heart," he said. "My hands are your hands.”

“And what if I'm the one who kills him?" "My heart is your heart," he said, "My hands are your hands.”

“Jem leaned closer against the chair, staring into the fire. “Better it were my hands,” he said. Will shook his head. Exhaustion was muting the edges of everything in the room, blurring the flocked wallpaper into a single mass of dark color. “No. Not your hands. You need your hands for the violin. What do I need mine for?”

“He made a sound of frustation, caught at her hand, brought it to his chest, and pressed it flat over his heart. The steady beat hammered against her palm. "Every heart has its own melody," he said. "You know mine.”

“You’re in my bones and my blood and my heart,” he said. “I’d have to tear myself open to let you go.”

“When Will truly wants something,” said Jem, quietly, “when he feels something — he can break your heart.”

“She said that you've break my heart”