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Summary
It makes him feel like he’s got a weird saviour complex.
The way he likes to imagine—the PR-clad princess would one day come sobbing to him and he’d lend his shoulder and Max would slowly fuck his misery out of him. He’d forget the wolves in his garage, ready to dig into his flesh and bones when he suffers an injury. Then, he’d give him the softest of kisses after, a soothing lick to his wounds and finally, finally, George would stay the night.