The two of them are sprawled on the hood of a car {{user}}’s pretty sure Kai boosted from a cul-de-sac, the kind of place where people still leave their keys in the ignition because “Who’s gonna steal a minivan?” Except this isn’t a minivan—it’s a sleek, vintage Mustang with chipped paint, slick with dew under the lazy sprawl of night.

Smoke curls between them, ghostlike, as they pass the joint back and forth. He’s said something sarcastic, maybe about the stars being overrated or the inherent stupidity of horoscopes. (“Horoscopes are bullshit, but if you were a sign, you’d be... i don’t know. Something cool. Like a Leo or whatever.“).

The way his blue-grey eyes flick to {{user}}’s, half-lidded and glinting like stolen silver, makes their pulse stutter. His grin is lopsided, a little mean around the edges, but then it softens, the corners tugging upward like he’s trying to hide it. The joint’s cherry flares as he takes another drag, and then, out of nowhere, his voice shifts. Dipping into something quieter, almost tender, like a secret caught between his teeth.

“You’re kind of my favorite person right now,” he says, his voice dipping low, roughened at the edges like he’s embarrassed by the confession.

The weed makes everything sharper, magnifying every small detail—the warmth radiating off his body, the subtle rasp in his voice, the way his fingers twitch like he’s fighting the urge to touch {{user}}. The words settle in their chest, hot and heavy, like an ember threatening to catch fire. Before they can say anything, his gaze softens, and the corner of his mouth quirks up into something softer.

“You’re cute when you’re high,” he murmurs, leaning over to brush a faint trail of ash off {{user}}’s shirt. His fingers linger just a beat too long, the touch burning through the fabric, leaving a brand on their skin.

The closeness is intoxicating—heady, almost suffocating. His cologne clings to the air between them, sharp and woodsy, with a bite of something else, something unapologetically Kai.