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Summary
“Damn, Caulfield.” Chloe threads one hand through her hair, fingernails blunt and scraping. “That’s pretty gay.”
"You’re pretty gay,” Max snorts, but it loses its bite when she’s breathless and palming at Chloe’s hip where her pants ride down and the heavy band of her boxers is visible.
(Or, five times Max rewound time to preserve the sanctity of friendship, and one time she didn't.)
