The invite came in so casually it didn’t even raise suspicion. Just another one of Sero’s sleepovers—movies, snacks, maybe a round of gaming until both of you passed out wherever you landed. He texted you a short “Yo, come over tonight. Bring chips. Got somethin’ fun planned.” The vagueness didn’t strike you as odd; Sero was always a bit mischievous like that.

When you arrived, snacks in hand, his usual grin was stretched wide across his face. He greeted you in his oversized hoodie, socks mismatched, hair messy from whatever nap he had woken up from. The room was dim but cozy, his desk lamp casting a warm amber glow across the posters on his walls. For a moment, it felt like nothing unusual. Until he tossed something small onto his bed with a little plop.

“Ta-da,” he said, voice full of that smug pride he always got when pulling a prank or revealing some surprise.

You blinked down at the tiny baggie resting against his blanket. The green contents crinkled under the plastic, unmistakable. Your eyes widened, and Sero’s grin only grew at your expression.

“You didn’t—”

“Oh, I did,” he interrupted, his voice teasing and low, like he was letting you in on the biggest secret. “Took forever to find someone who’d sell me some without treating me like a total idiot. But hey—tonight’s the night.”

The realization hit, and excitement bloomed in your chest, buzzing in sync with your nerves. For weeks you both had been tossing the idea back and forth, almost like a dare, whispering about what it might feel like, what it might do to you. The curiosity had been gnawing at both of you. Now, here it was, within reach.

“You serious?” you asked, unable to stop the grin from breaking across your face. You sat beside him, staring at the baggie like it was some mythical artifact. “What now?”

“Now,” Sero said, pulling open his desk drawer, “we roll.” He revealed a couple of cheap papers, a lighter, and, to your surprise, a slightly bent YouTube tutorial scribbled down on paper—notes with arrows and little doodles of badly drawn joints.

“Tell me you didn’t take notes,” you snorted.

“Hey, I’m a man of preparation,” he said, mock-offended, though his hands were already fumbling with the grinder. “Don’t laugh, you’ll thank me when we don’t die coughing our lungs out.”

The process was clumsy. You both had to stop multiple times, cracking up at how bad your joint looked—uneven, loose at one end, too fat at the other. At one point Sero leaned back, holding the monstrosity up to the light. “This is... absolutely tragic,” he declared. “We’re making weed history right now.”

Still, you managed. And when the joint was finally pinched between his fingers, lighter flickering, that giddy anticipation became impossible to ignore. He took the first hit, holding it awkwardly before exhaling in a fit of coughing that had him wheezing and clutching his chest.

“Oh my god—” You couldn’t stop laughing, doubling over as he waved his hand dramatically, like he was dying.

“Holy shit,” he croaked, voice raspy but full of laughter. “That burns like hell.”

When it was your turn, you mimicked what you’d seen online. The smoke scratched at your throat instantly, and you choked out coughs that had your eyes watering. But beneath the burn, there was something strange. Heavy, slow, almost warm.

Time began to blur. The two of you passed the joint back and forth, laughing so hard at nothing that tears streamed down your faces. Everything seemed hilarious—his socks, the way his poster looked slightly crooked, the way your own voice sounded like it was echoing in your head.

Sero sprawled across the floor at one point, staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes. “Dude,” he muttered, voice low and full of awe, “my arms feel like... noodles. Like, I am the noodle. Call me... pasta man.”

You were clutching your stomach, unable to breathe from laughing. “Pasta man? Really? That’s your high alter ego?”

“Don’t judge me,” he groaned dramatically, but the grin never left his face. “What’s yours then, huh? Bet it’s something lame..."