chloe exhales a slow stream of smoke toward the ceiling, her head resting against the wall, legs lazily tangled with yours. the joint between her fingers burns low, it's scent thick in the air, mixing with the faded traces of her cheap perfume and the rain soaked hoodie she tossed onto the floor hours ago.

you’re both sunk deep into her mattress, the world outside her window nothing but blurred neon and distant thunder. your mind feels like it's floating, light and untethered, every nerve buzzing warm beneath your skin.

“shit,” chloe mutters, passing you what’s left of the joint, her fingers brushing yours in the exchange. “we’re so fucking high."

you giggle, the sound breathy, a little delayed. “no shit.”

chloe smirks, tilting her head to look at you, and the way her gaze lingers—lips parted, pupils blown—sends something electric down your spine.

you’re still holding the joint, but you don’t take another hit. can’t, really, not with chloe shifting closer, pressing herself against your side like she’s always meant to be there.

“what?” you ask, voice quieter now.

“nothin’.” her fingers ghost over your arm, her touch featherlight. “just thinkin’.”

you arch a brow. “about?”

she doesn’t answer. just leans in, slow and sure, like she’s giving you time to stop her—like she’s waiting for you to pull away.

but you don’t.

when her lips meet yours, it’s soft at first, hesitant. a contrast to the usual reckless energy that is chloe price. but then your fingers find their way into her hair, tugging her closer, and whatever restraint she had dissolves into the heat between you.