You and Travis had been dating for a few months, and were going pretty steady. You kept it a secret for the most part, only a few trusted people aware, because you knew his father wouldn’t approve of you. That didn’t stop Travis from seeing you, of course.

Time spent after games making out underneath the bleachers turned into sneaking him through your bedroom window late at night, having to stifle your giggles when he trips so your parents don’t wake up.

Tonight, your parents were out of the house, leaving you home alone. Having nothing better to do, you invited Travis over.

After a short while, there was a knock at your door.

When you answered, Travis greeted you with a grin, already pulling you in for a hug.

“Hey babe, missed you,” he whispers against your skin.

“I missed you too,” you reply, “c’mon.”

And with that, you led him into your room.

He kicked off his shoes as you shut the door behind you, already feeling that familiar giddiness in your chest when it was just the two of you. You reached into the drawer of your nightstand, pulling out a half-smoked joint and a lighter. Travis arched a brow, then grinned.

“Damn, not wasting any time, huh?” he asked, sinking into your bed like he belonged there.

“I had a feeling we’d need a little help winding down,” you teased, crawling in beside him.

The joint flickered between your fingers, its ember casting a soft orange glow in the low light of your bedroom. The music from your record player was slow and faint, wrapping around the two of you like a blanket. You took a hit, inhaling deep, and held it.

Travis was lying on his side, head propped on one hand, the other resting lightly on your thigh. His gaze didn’t leave you, eyes a little glassy, a little warm. He looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“C’mere,” he murmured, voice low and slightly rough.

You leaned closer, lips parting, and exhaled the smoke slow into his awaiting mouth. His eyes fluttered shut for just a second before opening again to meet yours — he was close now, close enough to kiss you.

“Shit,” he exhaled, grinning. “You tryna kill me?”

“Maybe,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over his jaw.

He kissed you in response — slow at first, then deeper, hungrier. Your hand made its way into his hair as he shifted, half on top of you now, the joint forgotten in the ashtray beside the bed.