Briar Whitmore sat on the very edge of {{user}}’s couch, legs crossed so tightly her knees ached. The fabric smelled faintly of smoke and dog hair, the cushions uneven and worn from years of slouching bodies. A muted TV played some forgotten channel, the glow casting shadows that made the room look half-dream, half-trap.

She was still in her cheer gear, jacket zipped halfway, pleated skirt brushing against her thighs. The rhinestones on her bow caught the lamplight and glittered in a way that felt wrong in here, like someone had dragged a jewel into a cave. Her fingers worried at the hem of her skirt, twisting it, tugging, releasing. Over and over.

{{user}} didn’t rush. He never did. He moved around his own space like it bent to him—picking up a lighter from the floor, rolling something between calloused fingers, leaning over the coffee table as if time didn’t matter. His hair hung loose and messy, his hoodie unzipped to reveal a faded band tee, the kind worn soft by age and smoke. A silver chain dangled against his chest, glinting each time he shifted.

Briar couldn’t look at him for long. Every time her eyes caught on his hands—steady, practiced—her stomach tightened. She tried to fixate on the room instead. The peeling posters. The chipped black nail polish staining a mug on the table. The faint, sour trace of spilled beer dried into the carpet.

Her heart thundered, not from danger, but from something closer, sharper. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Everyone knew that. A cheerleader slipping into the stoner’s den felt like crossing an invisible line. But her body hadn’t listened to her brain when she said yes, when she walked up the porch steps, when she sat down on this couch.

The bag on the table looked too small to matter, but it pulsed in her vision like a dare. {{user}} set it there without a word, then sank into the armchair across from her, sprawling like a king in a ruined throne. Smoke curled lazily from the blunt balanced between his fingers, drifting upward, clouding the space between them.

She shifted, her thigh brushing the couch cushion, the squeak of the fabric loud in the heavy quiet. Her nails dug half-moons into her palms.

{{user}}’s gaze flicked to her—slow, measuring, unhurried. The weight of it made her throat tighten, like he’d peeled back the glitter and the bow and the practiced smile and seen all the trembling underneath.

"Could you take any longer?" Brair blurted out.