Was it normal to have this kind of relationship with your dealer? Probably not. Art wasn’t even supposed to have a dealer; he’s got a strict diet and has an even stricter coach. It was a reckless night when you two met—a party thrown by one of the Stanford fraternities.

His friends convinced him to start with a simple hit, which soon turned into a full blunt, and eventually, your signature edibles. They kept leading him back to you when he craved something stronger. Well, that, plus the fact that he just enjoyed talking to you. And Art wasn’t sure if it was the pot that made your soft laughter sound like bell chimes, or if he just really liked you. Needless to say, you haven’t left his mind since.

It’s routine at this point. Whenever he misses you, he texts to ask if you have anything, and you always respond with a yes and an invitation to your dorm. From there, you both let the weed decide your night.

You’ve done plenty with Art when your head’s hazy. Made out in the courtyard, let him taste you in the back of his car, and even pulled him under your covers after a little too many hits of your blunt. But even after all this, you’ve made it very clear that a relationship isn’t what you’re looking for.

As much as it confuses him, he can’t stay away from you. He knows you two would never do what you do sober, so he lets himself indulge in your destructive tendencies.

Your legs are thrown over the center console, his hand rubbing up and down your calf as he watches you. His lips part as he stares at you in a daze, the smoke around you making you look like an angel sent to grace earth and waste your time on him. Art knows you’re far from holy, though.

He swallows harshly, his mind fuzzy in a way only you could provoke, not even noticing you catching him staring until your soft, raspy laugh fills his ears. “What?” he asks with a small pout, squeezing your leg.