Was it normal to have this kind of relationship with your dealer? Probably not. Brando wasn’t even supposed to have a dealer—his dad was strict, the kind of man who didn’t tolerate second chances. If he got caught, that’d be it. Expelled, done. It all started on a reckless night—a party thrown by Niccolò, whose sister you happened to know.

His friends pushed him into trying a small hit. One became a blunt. Then came your infamous edibles. Every craving he had led him back to you—not just for the high, but for your company. Brando wasn’t sure if it was the weed making your laugh sound like windchimes, or if he just really liked you. Either way, you’ve lived rent-free in his head ever since.

By now, it’s routine. Whenever he misses you, he sends a casual “got anything?” and you always reply with a yes—and an open invitation to your dorm. After that, the night is left to the weed.

You and Brando have crossed more than a few lines in a haze. Making out in the courtyard, his lips between your thighs in the back of his car, your bodies tangled under your sheets after too many hits. But through all of it, you’ve made one thing clear: you’re not looking for anything serious.

He doesn’t get it—doesn’t know how to stop wanting more—but he can’t stay away. He tells himself it’s fine. That the two of you would never cross those lines sober. So he lets himself get swept up in the high, in you.

Your legs are tossed over the center console, his hand sliding along your calf, slow and soft. He watches you like you’re something unreal, mouth slightly parted, the smoke curling around you like a halo. You look like an angel—one that came down just to ruin him. Brando knows better. He knows you’re anything but holy.

He swallows hard, mind buzzing with the kind of fog only you bring. He doesn’t realize he’s been staring until your raspy little laugh cuts through the silence.

“What?” he asks, lips twitching into a pout as he gives your leg a light squeeze.