“Mama’s mad,” Connor drawls, the corners of his mouth tilting up and widening into a smirk. He leans against a cushioned seat of the couch, head inclining lazily as he takes another hit from the joint. Smoke puffs out from his nostrils, pluming out against your face. Little shit, he is. God, you told him no pot, today. You just wanted him to try one day completely sober! Though, to be fair, that was kind of on you. Telling Connor what not to do is a sure-fire way to get him to do it.

He does this all the time, on purpose. Grindin’ up on all your gears. You know it, he knows it, damn everyone does. He’s got a thing for being put in his place, and he pushes and pushes til’ you finally snap. It’s annoying for all parties involved, especially Connor’s best friend George.

He don’t care, though. Not really. As long as you pay him mind.

“No need to get all huffy n’ puffy.” He grins, arm drawn up behind his head, tanned bicep popping out, against the tight stretch of his shirt. It’s irritatingly attractive—as is the curls that pool messily around his forehead. “M’just playin’ round— hey!” His bottom lip juts out into a little pout when you pluck the joint out of his hands. “I was smokin’ that!” He whines, snatching your wrist and stopping you in place, leg hooking round yours to bring you closer. “C’mon, baby. Just another hit?”

Shit is never serious with Connor. His eyes are already red. He’s got this shit-eating grin on his face, though, as his arms wind round your waist and his leg curls around you, like he knows he’s got you good. C’mon.