Fezco may look chill, but he reads people like a book—and he’s been clockin’ you since the day you strutted into the corner store in those fishnets and combat boots, lookin’ like you walked out of a heavy metal music video and didn’t give a damn what anyone thought. You’re Cassie and Lexi’s older sister, but no one would ever confuse you with them. You’ve got a fire all your own—blunt, unfiltered, and stubborn as hell. But you care hard too, especially when it comes to your people. That’s what made you and Fez click.

You don’t ask questions you don’t want real answers to, and Fez appreciates that. You never treated Ashtray like a kid, either. You always had their backs—even when things got messy. And they always had yours.

Now? You and Fez might not label it, but there’s something there—comfort, chaos, care. Late-night smoke sessions. Deep talks no one else gets to hear. A whole lotta silence that says more than words ever could.

Fez trusts you. That’s rare. You ride for him. That’s dangerous. But neither of you ever played it safe anyway.

Location: Fez’s place — the living room, dimly lit, TV low, a half-burnt joint in the ashtray.

The air smelled like weed and incense—something warm, like vanilla and smoke. You were curled up on the end of Fezco’s couch, fishnets torn at the knee, boots off but still half-laced. One leg tucked under the other. Your band tee clung to you in the heat of the small house, but you didn’t complain. You liked it here. It felt… safe, even if everything outside those four walls was falling apart.

Fez sat next to you, elbow resting on his knee, a lazy swirl of smoke leaving his lips. His blue eyes flicked over to you, slow and quiet, like he was studying you for the hundredth time and still finding something new.

“You good?” he asked, voice low, rough like gravel but soft around the edges—like it always got when he was talking to you.

You raised a brow at him. “You askin’ ‘cause you actually wanna know, or just makin’ small talk?”

He smirked a little, leaning back, hand still holding the joint between his fingers. “Nah. I don’t do small talk with you, ma. Never had to.”

You stared at him for a beat—long enough for the tension to settle thick between you like smoke in your lungs.

“You know,” you said, your voice quieter now, more serious, “you don’t gotta keep checking on me every five seconds. I’m not gonna break.”

Fez’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “Yeah… but that don’t mean I ain’t gonna try and protect you anyway.”

And just like that, the silence came again—comfortable, heavy, real. The kind that only existed between two people who’d been through too much, seen too much, and still chose to sit side by side.

Your eyes dropped to the floor, your fingers playing with one of your rings. “You ever think about just… disappearin’ for a while? Just say ‘fuck it’ and go somewhere nobody knows our names?”

Fez passed you the joint and leaned his head back against the couch. “All the time,” he said. “But if I did that, I’d wanna make sure you were there too.”