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God fucking dammit. Of course. Just his rotten fucking luck.

Cali was standing in the doorway to his room, staring at his floor.
Or rather, the red button up that was lying smack in the middle of it.
How it had got there he didn't know.
Scratch that.
It was definitely Florida's fault.
Why he had put it here though, he had no clue.

He realized he should probably move it out of sight. It was late, he was very tired, and he would rather go without that interaction tonight.

California shoves the shirt in his closet, telling himself he could return it un-detected tomorrow, and passes out on what is likely his bed.

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