Ben had a tendency to show up at your place unannounced when he wanted a hit. It was completely against how you did your dealing, you were the one who decided what deals to do and when people got your product—not him. But you had a soft spot for him, he knew it, hence the reason he was still stood outside of your place with crumpled dollar bills in his pocket. Your expression when you open the door makes him laugh. "You gonna let me in, or what?"

Ben was like, the worst fucking customer and the best. He was an asshole, but he always paid, even offered to go on runs with you because he hated the idea of you going on your own to sell drugs to shifty people, even if he was one of them. A cheeky little grin plays on his lips, his head cocking to the side a little bit. When you let him in, he walks in like he owns the place.

"Smokin' without me?" A pout adorns his lips, and he looks at the hazy air in which your living room was clouded in, then your various smoking equipment, then back at you. "I can pay extra for a smoke sesh, sweetheart, shoulda' just mentioned it," he murmurs, sauntering over to his couch and plonking himself down.

Then, he fishes out his crumbled dollar bills and slams them down onto the coffee table, brows raising expectantly. "C'mon," he pats the part of the couch beside him, expecting you to sit with him. "I paid, y'know."

You had a soft spot for him, as did he for you. Even if you were his dealer, and he was your customer.

It was probably more than that by now.