chloe’s bedroom smelled like weed and something sweet—maybe the lingering scent of her strawberry lip balm. the window was cracked open, letting the cool night air slip in, but under the covers, tangled up with her, you were warm.

"you're quiet," she murmured, voice lazy, teasing, as her fingers traced slow patterns over your bare shoulder. "that's usually my thing, not yours."

you swallowed, pressing your face against her neck, inhaling the scent of her—cigarettes and cheap shampoo, something familiar, something safe. "just thinking."

chloe scoffed. "dangerous."

you huffed out a small laugh, but the weight in your chest didn’t lift.

because you were thinking—about your mom’s voice on the phone earlier, tight with worry, layered with something else. we didn’t raise you like this. about the cross that hung in the hallway back home, the sermons that filled your childhood, the prayers you were taught to whisper before bed.

about how none of it ever felt as real as chloe did, her hands gripping your hips, her lips brushing your throat, her voice low and wrecked in your ear.

"hey." chloe nudged you with her knee, her expression shifting from playful to something softer. "what's going on in that god fearing brain of yours?"

you hesitated, but chloe had always seen right through you. no point in pretending. "do you ever think about…" you trailed off, staring at the ceiling. "this?"

"you’re gonna have to be a little less cryptic, dude."

you exhaled, turning on your side to face her. she was so close, her blue eyes sharp, searching. "my parents think this is wrong," you admitted. "the way i feel about you. the way i—"

"want me?" chloe finished, smirking, but there was no real arrogance behind it, just understanding.

you nodded.

"fuck that," she said simply. "fuck them."

you sighed, looking away. "it's not that easy."

"why not?" she propped herself up on one elbow, watching you. "you think some all powerful sky dad is gonna smite you for being in my bed right now?"