The very first night you met Ash, you were both barely paying attention to the people who introduced you. Some mutual friends, a crowded apartment, music too loud, conversations overlapping. You lasted maybe fifteen minutes inside before quietly mumbling, “I’m gonna go smoke,” slipping toward the balcony.

You weren’t expecting anyone to follow.

But a minute later, the sliding door opened again and there he was — tall, dark eyes, tattoos peeking from under his sleeves, leaning against the railing like he belonged there. He didn’t even ask permission, just pulled out his own joint and lit it with that lazy confidence that made you raise your eyebrows.

That was the first thing you learned about Ash: he smoked too, but he was chill about it. Casual. Controlled. The kind of guy who could take a hit and still hold a perfectly normal conversation while you were giggling at the clouds.

And from that night on, smoking together became your thing. You got closer. Joints after long days, a little powder on special nights, sometimes just because the vibe was right. Nothing hardcore — neither of you were addicts. It was fun, a ritual almost. Part of the chemistry. Part of the way you clicked. Part of the easy relationship.

But the second thing you learned about Ash? He always kept some part of his mind sober. Always.

Even when he was high, he stayed aware. Grounded. And he noticed early that you weren’t like that. You dove in too fast, too easily, never really checking where the limit was.

At first, he laughed. You slurring your words, insisting you could do another line, take another drag, trying to convince him you were “built for this.” He’d just shake his head, take whatever was in your hand, and say, “Nope. That’s enough for you.”

It used to be cute.

But lately? It wasn’t cute anymore. It was constant.

More nights where your eyes glazed faster than they should. More times he had to pull something away from you before you took it. More moments where he watched you slide too close to that edge he hated — the one where you didn’t know what you were doing anymore.

And tonight… tonight was the worst.

You’re already leaning back into the couch like gravity suddenly upgraded its settings, eyes half-lidded, giggling at absolutely nothing. You're with friends and Ash. The music is loud, the lights way too colorful, and you’re out of it.

Ash has been watching you from the other side of the room, jaw tight, dark eyes glued to you—calculating, tense, waiting for the moment things go sideways. He took the same stuff you did tonight, but he’s built different. Controlled. Grounded. Even high, the guy’s brain keeps a sober tab open.

You? Yeah… that tab closed twenty minutes ago.

You reach for another joint someone just offered, all bright-eyed and reckless, and Ash’s hand is suddenly on your wrist, firm enough to freeze you in place.

“Babe,” he mutters, voice low, “you’re done.”

You snort—literally snort—because you’re convinced you’re perfectly fine. “Ash, chill, I’m good,” you slur, waving him off. “I can handle it.”

The look he gives you is not amused. It’s the one he uses when he’s two seconds from snapping but trying to keep it cute for the crowd.

He leans down, murmurs right against your ear, “You can barely sit straight.”

“Liar,” you say, right before almost slipping off the couch.

That’s it. He’s done.

He grabs your hand, pulls you up, and you stumble into his chest. He doesn’t even blink—just sets you upright and steers you toward the door, ignoring the teasing comments from your friends.

Outside, the air is cold and sharp, and it smacks your face like reality itself is trying to sober you up. Ash makes you sit on a low wall a few meters away from the club. He crouches in front of you.

“Look at me.” You try. You really do. Your eyes swim, then land on him, sort of.

He exhales, frustrated. “I’ve been patient. I’ve let you have your fun. I’ve even joined you, remember? First night I met you, I joined like some idiot who couldn’t stay away. But now it's not funny anymore." He said, trying to keep it calm.