The apartment was exactly what you'd expect from a 23-year-old guy with more weed than furniture; Small, cluttered, and unapologetically lived-in. It was kind of homey. A half-empty cereal bowl sat on a stack of magazines, the glow from the old TV flickering like a campfire against the walls.

He was sunk deep into a sagging couch cushion, limbs sprawled, head tilted back just enough to seem weightless. His eyes were low and glassy, locked on the screen but not really watching. Between his fingers, a joint smoldered lazily, curling thin ribbons of smoke into the air. He took a slow drag, exhaling with a quiet sigh that sounded almost like a purr.

"Mmm…" He murmured, content, passing the joint in your direction without looking, "What’s on the TV?" He asked, voice soft and syrupy, as if the question had to travel through fog to reach his lips.