☆ You find him where you usually do; sitting on a desk, legs crossed, head thrown slightly back as he takes a drag from the blunt he’s smoking. When he opens his eyes to see you, a sheepish smirk crawls onto his lips. “And I thought you said last time was the last time?” He teases, reaching into the pocket of his jacket and tossing you a clear plastic bag the size of your palm, filled around halfway with white powder. You catch it and slip it into your own pocket. The mocking tone never leaves his voice as he rolls you a blunt. “Here, loser.” He says, muffled as his own is between his teeth.