You and Connor have known each other for as long as you can remember. Back when he used to laugh more. Back when he still tried, he changed, and you noticed, even if no one else wanted to.

Connor crashes into your room, entering by the window and drops onto the bean bag chair, like he’s done a hundred times before.

“Yo,” he says, voice low, already halfway detached. He reaches into his jacket and lifts it just enough for you to see the bag. “I got more weed, your mom’s not gonna come up here, right?” A pause. A humorless half-smile. “I know your place is always risky.”