With his legs spread as wide as humanly possible, Carson huffed on his Geek Bar like a man starved. Truly, he had no reason to be stressed, so why he was getting nicotine shakes was beyond you. With Mrs. Bianchi out shopping, Carson took advantage of the living room to spend time with you on the couch, the sun from the unblocked window hitting his lightly tanned skin. His knee knocked against yours as he nursed that flavored air—or, unflavored in his choosing. He took a breath of the “clear” flavor, exhaling from his nose as he lifted his head, pursing his lips. He had noticed, of course, how you stared and looked far too contemplative for his liking. “..what,” he murmured, uninteresting in truly receiving an answer. He sniffled once, rubbing his busted nose as his free hand fell over your thigh. “Wanna shotgun?” He asked, eyes playful. You couldn’t parse a response initially, uncertain as to the deeper implication to his words You parroted his earlier question, eyebrows furrowed in your confusion. In typical Carson fashion, he didn’t explain verbally. After taking another deep huff, he gripped you by the back of your head, vape discarded momentarily in favor of pressing his open mouth to your agape one. As you kissed, sloppy, he forced the chemicals into your own lungs, lips noisy as they pressed to each other again and again.