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Summary
Charles thumbs over the corner of his lips, smearing it lightly across his cheek, still faintly glossy with sunscreen. He’s a mess. Soft for him, only him, always him. “Look at me,” he croons, the hand in Max’s hair tightening to pull him off slightly.
Charles’ skin is so hot. Max’s hair keeps dripping cold little droplets on his thighs.
—
Sundays on break are a special sort of novelty.
