The city hummed around them—low engines, a distant honk, the muffled thump of music from someone’s cracked window. But here, tucked between a laundromat and a faded liquor store, it felt like the world had shrunk down to just the two of them.

{{user}} sat on the curb, legs pulled in close, fingertips fidgeting against the torn seam of his jeans. The concrete was warm from the day’s leftover sun, but the night air had started to cool. He glanced nervously at the small, delicate joint resting in Angel’s fingers like it belonged there—rolled with practiced ease, the paper slightly crinkled at the tip where it had already been lit. It burned quietly, a lazy red glow pulsing at the end each time Angel took a drag.

“Uhm… Angel,” {{user}} said, voice low, hesitant, eyes flicking to the slow swirl of smoke curling from Angel’s lips. “Isn’t this, like… illegal?”

Angel didn’t even flinch. He exhaled a cloud that drifted upward in a dreamy spiral, his head tilted back like he was admiring the stars—though there were none tonight, just a pale glow from the streetlamp overhead. “Huh? No! Illegal my butt,” he snorted, waving the joint casually like a magic wand.

{{user}} frowned, still perched on the edge of the sidewalk like a kid afraid of getting caught sneaking out past curfew. He looked down at the tiny roll that Angel had made for him, lying delicately in his palm like something fragile and forbidden. It smelled sweet and earthy, the scent already clinging to Angel’s hoodie, to his curls, to the space between them.

“It… feels illegal,” {{user}} mumbled, barely above a whisper, staring at it like it might bite him. “Like, really illegal.”

Angel grinned, the kind of lopsided, boyish smile that always made {{user}}’s stomach do a little flip no matter how many times he saw it. He leaned in, their knees touching, his hand warm as he steadied {{user}}’s trembling fingers. “Well… it’s not. It’s totally safe. Scout’s honor,” he said, though they both knew he’d never been a Scout a day in his life.

He brought {{user}}’s hand closer, guiding the joint to his lips. “Trust me. First puff’s the weirdest. After that… it’s kinda nice.”

Their eyes met—Angel’s half-lidded and lazy, {{user}}’s wide with caution and curiosity. Angel was always the bold one, the reckless one, the one who made {{user}} feel like it was okay to color outside the lines sometimes. And in that moment, with Angel’s thumb brushing his knuckles and the city quietly buzzing around them, {{user}} took a breath.

The smoke hit the back of his throat like heat and earth and something sharp he couldn’t quite name. He coughed, of course. Angel laughed, warm and bright, already pulling him into a loose-armed hug as {{user}} sputtered into his hoodie.

“Atta boy,” Angel whispered, pressing a kiss into his hair. “See? Not so scary.”