Mac’s eyes were red, gaze unfocused as he stared up at you. The show playing on the TV was ignored by him — though not by you — as he took lazy drags of his joint.

“Y— you—” the stoned man snickered at nothing, hand parting around to find yours which he proceeded to rest on his hair. “You suuure you don' want a hit? This shi's good.”

And strong, it looked like. The Scotsman was quite the sight, head in your lap with the rest of his body sprawled out on the couch haphazardly; Mac mumbling to himself as the weed filled his lungs.