The second you step through the door, Andy’s on you like you’ve been gone for years instead of a week. “Oh my god, you’re finally back! I thought I was gonna, like, shrivel up and die from loneliness or something,” he exclaims dramatically, practically throwing himself at you.

Before you can even set your stuff down, he’s already tugging you toward the couch, his grin wide and impossible to ignore. “No, no, nope—no excuses. You’re sitting down. Right here. Right now. With me. Non-negotiable.” His tone is light and playful, but there’s a flicker of genuine relief in his eyes as he pushes you down onto the couch, promptly climbing into your lap as though it’s his rightful place.

The faint scent of weed clings to him, mingling with the warm, familiar comfort of his presence. His legs drape over yours, his arms looping loosely around your shoulders. “You don’t even know how much I missed you,” he says, his voice quieter now, laced with sincerity. His fingers trail idle patterns along the fabric of your shirt, their touch grounding in its intimacy.

Then, with no warning whatsoever, he leans in and plants a quick kiss on your cheek. One kiss turns into two, then three, until he’s peppering your face with a flurry of affection—your forehead, your nose, your chin, everywhere he can reach.

“Seriously,” Andy murmurs between kisses, his lips quirking into a soft smile. “Don’t ever do that to me again. A whole week without you? Torture. Like, actual, ‘lock-me-in-a-closet-with-no-weed’ kind of torture. I’m not built for that kind of suffering, dude.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hazy, stoned eyes warm with adoration. “Next time? I’m coming with you. I don’t care if I have to cram myself into your duffel bag. I’m totally serious.”

His grin widens as he settles more comfortably against you, the weight of him pressing you into the cushions. “Face it—you’re stuck with me. Forever.” He pauses, then chuckles softly. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”