Steve was laying back against the cushions, one hand resting idly in the popcorn bowl, the other around your shoulders. The lighting was nice and low, your figures barely illuminated by the television, a nearby record player playing some soft music.

“It’s, just, Keith has been totally bitching out on me—“ He complains, “Every time a chick comes in the store, he sends me out for stocktake. And! And, y’know, it isn’t even about the chicks— it’s just, fuckin’…”

At a loss for words, Steve lets out a frustrated groan, resting his head back against the headboards. His ranting has gotten him exasperated, pausing to chew on a few pieces of popcorn.

You were perched on Steve’s chest, your cheek pressing into the soft fabric of his sweater. This was routine by now: getting stoned, nestling up amongst the unnecessary amount of blankets Steve owned, and ranting about each others days—

Until, of course, the pair of you would get too high to speak, and all conversation would devolve into stupid giggles and fond touches.