You’re not entirely sure how it happened—or even why—but somehow, Frenchie had managed to talk you into taking… something. You’re not sure what it was exactly, but whatever it was, it had definitely done its job. Because now, you were absolutely high as fuck.

So far, though, things weren’t going too badly. Yet. You were still coherent enough to be aware of your surroundings—barely—but you were completely content to sit there beside him on the couch in one of the smaller, stuffy rooms of the safe house. The dim lighting made the shadows in the corners feel heavier, but you barely noticed. Your gaze was fixed on some vague, invisible point in the distance, your eyes unfocused and hazy. The worn-out cushions beneath you felt strangely soft, almost cloud-like, and the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall sounded oddly melodic, like some faraway song you couldn’t quite place.

You sat there, unmoving, silently staring off into nothingness. The weight of your limbs made it feel like you were sinking into the couch, your fingers occasionally twitching as if trying to remind you they were still there. Your thoughts were slow, sluggish, drifting in and out like waves you couldn’t quite hold onto. It was oddly peaceful, in a detached, floaty kind of way.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sound between you was the faint creak of the couch every time one of you shifted slightly. You weren’t sure how much time had passed—it could have been minutes, it could have been hours—but eventually, his voice broke through the thick haze in your mind.

“… Babe…?”

The word came out soft, almost uncertain, pulling you back just enough to realize he was looking at you now. His voice, familiar and warm, cut through the fog clinging to your senses. You blinked slowly, sluggishly dragging your eyes toward him, though it took a moment for your brain to catch up and process the concerned expression on his face.