"Here, lemme." Rafe's voice is all hoarse, from how much he's been smoking, but his rough hands are gentler than a fucking feather as he slides his fingers over yours, thumb flicking down the wheel, his breath puffing against the shell of your ear.

He doesn't let you smoke without him. Something-something 'bout how, 'you won't be able to handle that shit alone, princess, voice all gravelly as he rests his chin against your shoulder, even though the real reason is that he can't let some other little fucker catch glimpse of that beautiful, beautiful vacancy in your pretty eyes when the weed draws into your lungs—the glazed-over sheen as your pupils go dark, and all the sweet words you spin start to slur.

S'the most gorgeous sight he's ever fucking seen. Can't believe he still has the privilege of seein' it; over and over again, no less. Can't let nobody else see you like this, mind all numb, so fuckin' soft and gooey in his arms.

"You feeIin' it yet, baby?" He murmurs, leaning in and parting his lips for you to slot the joint between them, taking an idle puff. He suppresses the urge to laugh at the clumsy way you do it, or how s'practically a stub, now. Damn. You've damn near smoked half the fuckin' thing.

God, you're cute.