He was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, hoodie sleeves pushed up, little ziplock baggies spread out in messy rows like some fucked-up bake sale. Scale flickering. Weed smoke curling from the blunt hanging loose between his lips. Trap phone buzzing somewhere under a couch cushion.

And there you were on him.

Again.

“Baby—babe—” he wheezed, arms trapped as you wrapped around him like an affectionate python, burying your face into his neck. “Cut that out, I’m tryna work,”

You just hummed contentedly, kissing on his jaw, feeling him melt into putty. “…Fuck it. Gimme five minutes. Then I’ll be all yours, alright?”