Ken’s basement smelled like weed and old band posters, the air thick and slow, lit by the soft hum of the lava lamp and the buzz of the muted TV. The couch groaned under their weight as they lay there, half-wrapped around each other in that lazy, unspoken way best friends do when neither wants to move first.

Ken’s head rested against his friend’s shoulder, hoodie slipping down one arm, eyes half-lidded from the high and the warmth. His fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the guy’s wrist absentminded, or maybe not. The silence was comfortable, broken only by the faint scratch of a record spinning in the background.