Logan had seen a lot of weird stuff in his long and violent life, but watching a room full of superpowered teenagers try to one-up each other while their teachers place bets? That's a special kind of chaos that deserves its own documentary.
It all started when Harry Potter—yes, that Harry Potter, though he insisted everyone call him "Marauder" now—decided that floating was somehow cooler than walking. Which, to be fair, it kind of was.
—
The Setup (AKA: How to Traumatize Scott Summers in Three Easy Steps)
Scott Summers stood at the center of the Danger Room like he was posing for a superhero recruitment poster. At six-foot-three with perfectly tousled brown hair and the kind of jaw that could cut glass, he looked every inch the future leader of the X-Men. Unfortunately for Scott, looking the part and actually being the part were two very different things.
"Formation Delta!" Scott barked, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd been practicing in the mirror. "Standard flanking maneuvers! We've trained for this!"
The X-Men moved like a well-oiled machine. Kitty Pryde, compact and fierce with her brown hair tied back in a practical ponytail, phased through the floor with the kind of grin that promised trouble. Kurt Wagner, all gangly limbs and dark hair, disappeared in a puff of sulfurous smoke that probably violated several EPA regulations. Rogue, stunning in that dangerous way that made smart people keep their distance, shot skyward with Sam Guthrie, whose blonde hair and easy Kentucky grin made him look like he was heading to a barbecue instead of a battle.
"This is gonna be fun," Sam drawled, his Southern accent thick as molasses as he rocketed through the air. "Ain't had a good scrap in weeks."
Piotr Rasputin, built like a friendly mountain and twice as immovable, transformed into his steel form with the sound of metal grinding against metal. His Russian accent made everything sound like poetry, even when he was preparing to punch things.
"Is good day for battle," Piotr rumbled, his voice carrying the warmth of someone who genuinely enjoyed his work. "Let us dance."
Tabitha Smith, platinum blonde and perpetually bored, started generating plasma charges between her fingers like she was warming up for a light show. Her beauty was undermined somewhat by the fact that she was literally holding balls of explosive energy.
"Can we just get this over with?" Tabitha sighed, her voice carrying the particular brand of teenage ennui that made adults want to ground her. "I have a manicure appointment at three."
Rahne Sinclair, her red hair bright as flame and her Scottish accent thick enough to cut with a knife, shifted into her half-wolf form with the fluid grace of someone who'd been doing this since she could walk.
"Och, ye're all about to get schooled," Rahne said, her brogue making the threat sound almost friendly. "Hope ye've got good insurance."
It was beautiful. It was coordinated. It was everything Scott had drilled into them for months.
Then Harry Potter decided to ignore gravity entirely.
—
The Float (AKA: How to Make Physics Cry)
Harry rose from the floor like he was taking a casual elevator ride, his crimson and gold armor catching the light in ways that probably violated several laws of physics. The hood cast shadows across his face, but his emerald eyes—the kind of green that made people think of spring meadows and deep forests—seemed to glow with their own inner light.
"Oh, come on," Kitty muttered, her head popping up through the floor like a very sarcastic mole. "That's just showing off."
Harry's voice, distorted slightly by magic, carried perfectly across the chamber. "Showing off would be doing this while juggling flaming torches. This is just Tuesday."
From the observation booth, Logan's gravelly voice crackled through the comm system. "You're about to get schooled by a kid who plays a sport that involves flying around on a stick, Summers. Might want to reconsider your strategy."
Scott's jaw tightened—always a bad sign. He raised his visor, the ruby quartz gleaming like a very expensive gemstone, and fired.
The optic blast tore through the air in a brilliant scarlet line, packed with enough concussive force to punch through a bank vault. It should have sent Harry spinning into the wall like a very dramatic pinball.
Instead, Harry tilted his head like he was listening to music only he could hear. The beam missed by inches, carving a smoking furrow into the reinforced wall behind him.
"Seriously?" Harry called, his voice carrying that particular brand of teenage snark that could strip paint. "I've dodged Bludgers that were more accurate than that. And those were aimed by people who actively wanted to hospitalize me."
Scott's mouth twitched—never a good sign. "Lucky shot."
"Lucky?" Harry spun in midair. "Mate, luck is what happens when skill meets opportunity. What just happened was skill meeting your complete inability to hit a moving target."
The observation booth erupted in barely contained laughter. Logan's voice cut through the noise like a rusty blade.
"Ouch. Kid's got a mouth on him."
"I've got more than that," Harry replied, somehow hearing the comment despite the distance. "I've got style."
—
The Dance (AKA: How to Make Scott Summers Question His Life Choices)
What happened next could only be described as aerial poetry written in violence and teenage arrogance.
Scott fired again, this time leading his target like he'd been taught. Harry didn't dodge—he danced. A lazy corkscrew through the air that ended in a backward dive, his magic trailing behind him like liquid fire. The beam passed harmlessly beneath him as he spun, rose, and hung in midair like he was posing for the cover of "Supernatural Teen Quarterly."
"Getting warmer," Harry said, grinning now in a way that made several X-Men forget what they were supposed to be doing. "But not by much."
"Stand still!" Scott barked, charging his visor for a more powerful blast.
"Where's the fun in that?" Harry called back, diving straight down in a move that would have made professional stunt pilots weep with envy.
Scott fired three rapid shots, sweeping high to low in a pattern that should have been impossible to avoid. Harry pulled up at the last second, flipped into a midair handstand that defied both gravity and common sense, and hung there.
Upside down. Grinning. Looking like he was having the time of his life.
"You know what your problem is, Summers?" Harry called, his voice somehow carrying perfectly despite being inverted. "You're thinking like a soldier. Follow the plan, trust the training, stick to the formation."
He dropped like a meteor, magic swirling around his hands in patterns that made the air itself seem to shimmer. Scott's beams chased empty air as Harry suddenly wasn't there anymore.
"But here's the thing about fighting a wizard," Harry's voice whispered right behind Scott's ear, so close that Scott could feel the warmth of his breath. "We don't follow plans. We are the plan."
Scott spun, visor charging, but Harry was already gone, shooting back into the air with laughter that echoed through the chamber like music.
"That kid's gonna give me a heart attack," Logan muttered through the comm. "And I heal from everything."
—
The Chemistry (AKA: How to Make Everyone Else Feel Single)
Meanwhile, Jean Grey was floating in midair like she owned the very concept of gravity, her red hair whipping around her face in ways that made her look like she'd stepped out of a shampoo commercial. She was all sharp cheekbones and fierce intelligence, with the kind of beauty that made people forget how to form complete sentences.
"Having fun yet, Potter?" Jean called, her voice carrying that particular mix of challenge and affection that made half the boys in school jealous and the other half suicidal.
Harry's grin widened, his emerald eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made the air between them practically crackle. "Depends. Are you planning to kiss me when this is over?"
"That depends," Jean shot back, her cheeks flushing pink in a way that made her even more stunning. "Are you planning to keep showing off like a peacock with attachment issues?"
"Only for you," Harry replied, his voice carrying across the chamber with absolute sincerity. "Well, you and the girls. Can't forget the girls."
"We're right here, you know," Daphne Greengrass called from below, her crisp British accent cutting through the chaos like a blade made of ice and aristocratic disdain. She skated backward on conjured frost, her platinum blonde hair streaming behind her like a banner of pure winter. She was all curves and sharp intelligence, with the kind of beauty that made people write terrible poetry.
"I'm very aware of where you are," Harry called back, diving into a spinning descent that brought him closer to the ground. "Hard to miss someone who looks like a snow angel with anger management issues."
"I don't have anger management issues," Daphne replied, conjuring a wall of ice that sent Rogue sliding across the floor like a very elegant hockey puck. "I have anger *expression* issues. There's a difference."
"Semantics," Harry said, spinning away from another of Scott's increasingly frustrated optic blasts.
"Accuracy," Daphne corrected, her smile sharp enough to cut diamonds. "I'm very precise with my emotions, thank you very much."
"Among other things," Susan Bones called cheerfully as she hexed Kurt Wagner into next week. Her red hair bounced as she moved, and her face was softened by the kind of genuine warmth that made people want to bake cookies with her. "She's precise with everything. It's quite impressive, actually."
"Flattery will get you everywhere," Daphne replied, her ice spreading across the floor in patterns that would have made professional figure skaters weep with envy.
"I'm not flattering," Susan said, dodging Kitty's phase-tackle with a laugh that sounded like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. "I'm stating facts. You're brilliant, beautiful, and terrifying. It's a very attractive combination."
"You're all attractive," Harry called down, his voice carrying more warmth than his usual snark. "It's one of my better qualities—excellent taste in women."
"One of?" Jean asked, raising an eyebrow in a way that made Harry's stomach do interesting things.
"Well, I'm also devastatingly handsome, incredibly modest, and absolutely brilliant at everything I do," Harry replied, his grin widening. "But the taste in women thing is definitely top five."
"Top five?" Daphne asked, her voice carrying dangerous levels of amusement. "What are the other four?"
"Quidditch skills, wit, magical prowess, and my ability to make enemies question their life choices," Harry said without missing a beat. "Though that last one might be more of a hobby than a quality."
"It's definitely a quality," Susan called, stunning Kurt Wagner with a spell that sent him tumbling across the floor in a cloud of sulfurous smoke. "A very useful one, actually."
—
The Trash Talk (AKA: How to Destroy Someone's Soul with Words)
The battle had devolved into something that looked like organized chaos directed by someone with an excellent sense of humor and questionable judgment. Harry continued his aerial dance, weaving between energy blasts and spells with the kind of casual grace that made professional athletes weep with envy.
"You know what your problem is, Summers?" Harry called, banking sharply to avoid another optic blast. "You're trying to fight a three-dimensional battle in two dimensions."
"I'm fighting just fine," Scott replied through gritted teeth, his visor charging for another shot.
"Oh, sure," Harry said, spinning into an inverted dive that would have made Olympic gymnasts quit their jobs. "If by 'fine' you mean 'like a drunk stormtrooper with depth perception issues,' then yeah, you're doing great."
The observation booth erupted in barely contained laughter. Logan's voice cut through the noise like a rusty chainsaw.
"Kid's got a point, Summers. You're shooting like you're trying to hit a barn door from inside the barn."
"I'm doing my best," Scott said, his jaw tight with frustration.
"Your best is adorable," Harry replied, hanging upside down in midair like he was taking a casual nap. "Really. It's like watching a toddler try to catch a butterfly with a butterfly net made of concrete."
"That doesn't even make sense," Scott snapped.
"Neither does your aim," Harry shot back. "But at least my metaphors are entertaining."
Across the room, the other battles were reaching their own levels of beautiful chaos.
—
The Supporting Cast (AKA: Everyone Else Gets Their Moment)
Rogue, who was the walking embodinent of a young girl with an attitude problem and the kind of dangerous beauty that made smart people cross the street, had finally caught up with Daphne. Her Southern accent was thick as honey and twice as dangerous.
"You know, sugar," Rogue drawled, her white-streaked hair framing a face that was gorgeous and deadly in equal measure, "all that ice ain't gonna help you when I get my hands on you."
"Assuming you can catch me," Daphne replied, spinning on her ice skates with the grace of someone who'd been born to make others look clumsy. "Which, given your track record, seems unlikely."
"Them's fightin' words," Rogue said, her grin sharp as a blade.
"They're supposed to be," Daphne replied sweetly. "I'm British. We invented fighting words."
"Y'all invented a lot of things," Rogue said, launching herself forward with the kind of speed that made cheetahs look lazy. "Don't mean you're good at 'em."
She caught Daphne around the waist, her momentum carrying them both across the ice in a tumbling mess of limbs and attitude. They rolled to a stop with Rogue on top, her hands glowing with absorbed energy.
"Got you," Rogue said, her voice triumphant.
"Do you?" Daphne asked, her smile sharp as winter.
The ice beneath them suddenly spiked upward, sending Rogue flying across the room with a curse that would have made sailors blush.
"Bloody hell," Daphne muttered, picking herself up with the kind of dignity that only came from years of private school training. "Americans are so dramatic."
Meanwhile, Susan Bones was having what appeared to be a very polite conversation with Kurt Wagner, if you ignored the fact that she was systematically hexing him into oblivion.
"You know," Susan said cheerfully, her red hair bouncing as she dodged Kurt's teleportation attack, "the sulfur smell really isn't doing you any favors."
"Vell," Kurt replied, his German accent thick with frustration as he appeared behind her in a cloud of smoke, "zis is embarrassing."
"Oh, it gets worse," Susan said sweetly, spinning around with her wand already pointed at his chest. "Stupefy!"
The spell caught Kurt mid-teleport, sending him tumbling across the floor in a way that would have been tragic if it wasn't so funny.
"Nothing personal, darling," Susan called to his prone form. "But Harry's honor is at stake, and I take that very seriously."
"His honor?" Kitty Pryde called, her brown hair mussed and her eyes bright with mischief as she popped up through the floor like a very sarcastic prairie dog. "What honor? He's been showing off for the past ten minutes."
"Exactly," Susan replied, as if that explained everything. "He's showing off for us. It's very romantic."
"It's very something," Kitty said, lunging forward with the kind of speed that came from years of phasing through solid matter. "I'm just not sure romantic is the word I'd use."
"Then you're not paying attention," Susan said, sidestepping Kitty's attack with a dancer's grace. "The way he moves, the way he fights—it's all for us. He's performing."
"Like a peacock," Kitty said, phasing through Susan's hex with a grin.
"Like a knight," Susan corrected, her wand work turning the air around them into a light show of sparks and energy. "A very attractive knight with excellent flying skills and a tendency toward dramatic gestures."
"I can work with that," Kitty said, her grin widening as she prepared for another attack.
On the other side of the room, Cedric Diggory was locked in what could only be described as the world's most polite fistfight with Sam Guthrie. Both boys were grinning like maniacs, trading blows with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested they were having the time of their lives.
"Nice form," Cedric called, his accent crisp and proper even while ducking Sam's rocket-powered haymaker. He was all broad shoulders and honest good looks, with the kind of smile that made people want to trust him with their life savings.
"Thanks, partner," Sam replied, his Kentucky drawl making everything sound relaxed even as he tried to knock Cedric's head into the next county. His blonde hair and easy grin made him look like the kind-hearted jock every girl liked. "You're pretty handy yourself."
"Hufflepuff training," Cedric said, catching Sam's fist and redirecting his momentum with the kind of casual skill that made martial artists weep with envy. "We specialize in being underestimated."
"That's a hell of a strategy," Sam said, spinning in midair to avoid Cedric's counterattack. "Might have to steal that."
"Feel free," Cedric replied, his grin widening. "Though I should warn you—it works better when you're actually as good as you pretend not to be."
"Who says I'm pretending?" Sam asked, his rocket blast sending them both tumbling across the floor in opposite directions.
—
The Plant War (AKA: When Neville Gets Serious)
Meanwhile, Neville Longbottom was having what appeared to be a very philosophical conversation with Piotr Rasputin, if you ignored the fact that they were trying to destroy each other with extreme prejudice.
"You know," Neville said conversationally, his resemblance to Matthew Lewis's later years unmistakable in the sharp intelligence of his dark eyes, "I've always wondered what would happen if an unstoppable force met an immovable object."
His plants wrapped around Piotr's steel arms like green cables, their vines thick as anchor rope and twice as strong. The Russian's transformation had turned him into something that looked like a WWE wrestler had been dipped in liquid metal and programmed to be incredibly polite about violence.
"Da," Piotr rumbled, his accent thick as molasses and warmer than summer sunshine. "Is very philosophical question. Also is very practical question, da?"
"Quite practical," Neville agreed, his vines tightening with the kind of inexorable pressure that made hydraulic presses look like toys. "Let's find out the answer together."
Piotr's laugh boomed through the chamber, the sound of someone who genuinely enjoyed his work. "I like you, little botanist. You have... how you say... spine."
"I have chlorophyll," Neville corrected, his plants suddenly blooming with thorns that would have made medieval torture devices jealous. "And a really excellent fertilizer blend."
The thorns struck sparks against Piotr's steel skin, holding firm despite the incredible forces involved. For a moment, it looked like the immovable object might actually win.
Then Piotr began to spin.
"Is my turn now, da?" he said, his massive frame turning into a steel tornado that shredded the vines like confetti.
But Neville was already growing more, his plants erupting from every surface in the room with the kind of abundance that made rainforests look barren.
"You haven't seen anything yet, mate," Neville called, his voice cheerful despite the chaos. "I've been practicing."
—
The Light Show (AKA: When Pretty Girls Try to Kill Each Other)
Tabitha Smith was locked in what could only be described as the world's most beautiful light show with Luna Lovegood. Tabitha's beauty was undermined somewhat by the plasma charges crackling between her fingers, while Luna looked like she had been dipped in starlight and programmed to be absolutely fearless.
"You know," Tabitha said, her voice carrying that particular blend of boredom and excitement that made her so dangerous, "most people try to avoid the glowing balls of death."
"Oh, but they're so pretty," Luna replied, her dreamy voice somehow carrying perfectly through the chaos as she dodged another plasma charge. "Like angry fireflies having a rave. I've always wondered what that would look like."
"Probably something like this," Tabitha said, lobbing another charge that turned the air purple where it passed.
Luna spun away from the explosion with the fluid grace of someone who existed slightly outside normal reality, her movements more interpretive dance than combat technique.
"You're very artistic," Luna said, her voice carrying genuine admiration. "I like that in a person trying to blow me up."
"Thanks," Tabitha replied, genuinely pleased despite herself. "Most people just call me destructive."
"Destructive is just another word for creative," Luna said philosophically, her magic turning the air around them into something that looked like the inside of a kaleidoscope. "You're a performance artist with explosions."
"I'm definitely putting that on my business cards," Tabitha said, her grin widening despite the fact that she was literally holding weapons-grade plasma.
—
The Chase Scene (AKA: When Werewolves Meet Quidditch Players)
Far away from the main battle, Rahne Sinclair was living her best life chasing Angelina Johnson through the chamber. In her half-wolf form, she was all red fur and Scottish attitude, her enhanced senses making her a nightmare to evade.
"C'mon then, lass!" Rahne barked, her brogue thick enough to cut with a knife as she leaped from platform to platform. "Stop flittin' around like a bluidy butterfly!"
Angelina Johnson, who looked like a Valkyrie with an attitude problem, banked sharply on her broomstick, her laughter echoing through the chamber like music.
"Stop being so slow, then!" Angelina called back, diving through a gap that would have been impossible for anyone without years of professional Quidditch training. "I thought shapeshifters were supposed to be fast!"
"I'm plenty fast!" Rahne replied, her leap carrying her across a gap that would have made Olympic long jumpers weep with envy. "Ye're just too chicken to stand and fight!"
"I'm not chicken," Angelina shot back, pulling into a climb that would have made falcons jealous. "I'm tactical. There's a difference."
"That's what all the cowards say," Rahne said, her grin showing entirely too many teeth.
"Coward?" Angelina's voice carried dangerous levels of indignation. "I'll show you coward!"
She dove straight down, her broomstick screaming through the air like a missile with attitude problems. Rahne met her charge with a leap that carried her twenty feet straight up, her claws extended and her eyes bright with the kind of joy that came from a really good fight.
They collided in midair with a sound like thunder, tumbling through the air in a tangle of limbs and attitude that would have made professional wrestlers jealous.
—
The Finale (AKA: How to End a Fight with Style)
Through it all, Harry Potter floated in the center of the chaos like the eye of a very attractive storm. His resemblance to Tom Welling was striking—all broad shoulders and honest good looks, with the kind of smile that made people forget their own names. The emerald eyes were pure Harry Potter, though, bright with intelligence and just a touch of mischief that suggested he was having the time of his life.
He was also, Scott was beginning to realize with growing horror, completely untouchable.
"This is getting ridiculous," Scott muttered, his visor charging for what felt like the hundredth shot.
"You're just figuring that out?" Harry called, somehow hearing him across the din of battle. "And here I thought you were supposed to be the smart one."
"I *am* the smart one," Scott replied, firing three rapid shots in a pattern that should have been impossible to dodge.
Harry twisted through them like he was made of smoke and starlight, his laughter echoing through the chamber. "Then why can't you hit me?"
"Because you're cheating," Scott said, his jaw tight with frustration and something that might have been desperation.
"I'm not cheating," Harry replied, spinning lazily in midair like he was taking a casual swim in zero gravity. "I'm just playing a different game than you are."
"What game?" Scott asked, genuinely curious despite his frustration.
Harry's grin was sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous. "The one where I win."
He dropped out of the air like a crimson meteor, his wand extended and his eyes bright with triumph. Scott's hand moved toward his visor, but Harry was already there, the tip of his wand pressed against the ruby quartz with the kind of gentle precision that made the threat absolutely clear.
"Bang," Harry said softly, his voice carrying clearly in the sudden silence. "You're dead."
The chamber went quiet except for the sound of various teenagers breathing heavily and trying to look like they hadn't just been having the time of their lives.
Scott's jaw worked soundlessly, his entire body rigid with the kind of frustration that came from being comprehensively outclassed by someone who made it look effortless.
"How?" Scott asked finally, his voice hoarse.
Harry stepped back, his wand disappearing into his robes with a flourish that was pure showmanship. "Because you were so busy trying to prove you could hit me that you forgot to actually fight me."
He spread his arms wide, his cloak billowing dramatically in a way that should have looked ridiculous but somehow didn't.
"You want to know the real difference between us, Summers?" Harry continued, his voice carrying that particular brand of teenage arrogance that made adults want to ground him until he was thirty. "You fight like you're following a script. Every move calculated, every strategy planned, every contingency accounted for."
His grin widened, sharp and dangerous and absolutely devastating.
"I fight like the script doesn't exist. I improvise. I adapt. I make it up as I go along and somehow make it look like I planned it all along."
"That's not strategy," Scott said, his voice tight with something that might have been respect. "That's chaos."
"That's life," Harry replied, his voice carrying absolute certainty. "Life is chaos. The trick is learning to surf the wave instead of fighting the tide."
From the observation booth, Logan's gravelly voice cut through the silence like a rusty blade wrapped in approval.
"Not bad, kid," Logan said, his tone carrying the kind of respect that had to be earned. "Not bad at all."
—
The Victory Lap (AKA: How to Make Everyone Else Feel Inadequate)
As the lights came up and the Danger Room began its power-down sequence, Harry found himself surrounded by his teammates—Jean pressing close against his side, her red hair catching the light like flame; Daphne's hand finding his arm with the kind of possessive elegance that made other girls jealous; Susan's fingers intertwining with his like they belonged there.
The connection between them was palpable, electric, the kind of bond that made other people both envious and slightly uncomfortable.
"So," Jean said, her voice soft with affection and just a touch of challenge, "about that victory kiss..."
Harry's grin was brilliant as he leaned down to claim it, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that was soft and fierce and perfect all at once. When they broke apart, Daphne was there, her smile sharp as winter as she claimed her own kiss, followed by Susan, whose lips tasted like sunshine and the kind of mischief that made life worth living.
"Bloody hell," Neville breathed, his eyes wide with the kind of awe usually reserved for natural phenomena. "They're actually doing it."
"Doing what?" Cedric asked, looking genuinely confused in the way that only very attractive people could manage.
"The whole polyamory thing," Neville explained, his voice carrying the kind of wonder that suggested he was witnessing something legendary. "It's like watching a romantic comedy written by someone with excellent taste and questionable morals."
"Better than a romantic comedy," Luna said dreamily, her magic finally settling down into something that looked almost normal. "Those never have enough explosions."
From the observation booth, Logan's voice crackled through the comm system one final time, tinged with the kind of dry humor that suggested he'd seen everything and been impressed by very little of it.
"All right, you hormone-addled teenagers," he said, his tone carrying fond exasperation. "Save the victory celebration for after class. Some of us have actual work to do."
But his voice carried a note of approval that made Harry's chest tight with something that might have been pride.
"Same time tomorrow?" Harry called toward the booth, his arm tightening around Jean's waist.
"Same time tomorrow," Logan confirmed. "And Potter?"
"Yeah?"
"Try not to make it look so easy next time. You're making the rest of us look bad."
Harry's laughter echoed through the corridor as the teams filed out, bright and genuine and full of the kind of promise that made everything seem possible.
"You know," Jean said, her voice thoughtful as they walked, "I think I'm going to like it here."
"Think so?" Harry asked, his emerald eyes bright with mischief and something deeper.
"I know so," Daphne said, her ice-blue eyes carrying the kind of certainty that made other people's doubts seem ridiculous. "After all, where else are we going to find opponents worth showing off for?"
"Nowhere," Susan added, her voice warm with the kind of affection that made everything better. "Which is exactly why we're going to fit in perfectly."
Harry's grin was bright as starlight and twice as dangerous as they walked toward whatever came next, together.
Because really, what was the point of being extraordinarily gifted if you couldn't show off for the people who mattered?
And judging by the way his girls were looking at him, he'd definitely found the people who mattered.
Everything else was just details.
---
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