He’s high. Again. You can hear it in the slow slur of Jason’s voice, the way his voice just a little more breathy than usual, the gruff syllables melting into something more easy, more relaxed.

You’re in your apartment, the clock ticking 3am as your ex-boyfriend’s voice filters through the cracking phone line.

“Where you at, {{user}}?” Jason murmurs into the phone where he’s sprawled on his leather couch in his own apartment, a blunt burning away between his fingers, his eyes shut as he breathes out a plume of smoke.

“Where else, Blue Jay?” you mutter back. The nickname easily rolls from your tongue and it makes Jason’s head tilt back against his sofa, cracked phone pressed to his ear, lips parting.

Fuck, he likes it when you call him that. Especially when he’s like this — when his head is a little more fuzzy around the edges and your voice sounds like honey in his ear, igniting his blood. It’s a bad habit to call you, when the weed makes him cave on his usual restraint, calling your number that he swears he’ll keep blocked. The unblock button always looks so much more enticing when he’s high.

“Home?” Jason murmurs, tongue dragging over his dry bottom lip before he takes another pull of the joint.

You let out a soft noise. It might be a sigh, it might be a dry laugh. Either way it’s frustrated as you mutter your assent and he just imagines you, conjuring images of your cozy apartment, sleep mussed in the dark. It’s a good image, one he only lets himself lament and torture himself with when he’s half a blunt through.

It’s how it always goes — he always comes back to you. He’s past trying to pretend that you’re not his sun and that his thoughts don’t swirl and revolve around you. You guys never work out but his heart doesn’t give a shit. Neither does his dick by the way his jeans are straining now just from hearing your voice.

“Let me come over then?” Jason murmurs as he raises his joint to his lips, taking a slow drag, phone tucked to his ear, head rolled back, smoke escaping up towards the ceiling.