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“Fuckin’ good shit,” he says, voice gravel-rough. You manage a shaky little smile back and he laughs, low and dirty. The two of you smoke quietly for a few minutes, passing it back and forth until it’s nearly done. “Je-sus Christ, look at you.”
Your eyes are half-mast, heavy-lidded, but you can’t peel them off his face, off the way the porch light cuts shadows under his cheekbones, the way his lips wrap around the word fuck like it’s candy. You’re practically gawking at him and you know it, but the weed’s got your filter on vacation.
“You keep starin’ at me like that,” he says, arching one brow, “and I’m gonna have to fuckin’ do somethin’ about it.”
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