You were Chris’s girl—the one he kept close, even if he never called it that out loud. The one he dropped stacks on, just to watch you smile. Four bands just for a mall run. A couple more for your nails—because those were for him anyway.

You weren’t dating... but you weren’t not dating either. It had been two years of this messy, addictive thing between you—two years of “just chillin” that felt a whole lot like love in disguise.

Chris had woken up about ten minutes ago, to the familiar press of bare skin against his chest. Your legs tangled with his, your body soft and warm across his bed. He didn't move. Just laid there, grinning to himself, still high off the night before—off you.

He loved seeing you like this. Especially the morning after he’d absolutely ruined you.

You stirred awake, drawn in by the scent of that good green—same kind he’d given you a dozen times for free, just to remind you who you belonged to. Followed by that familiar low chuckle and the deep, lazy voice that never failed to make you smirk:

“Knew that’d wake you up, Ma.”

Chris exhaled slow, the smoke curling toward the ceiling, his eyes already locked on you before yours had even opened fully.