Carl Gallagher hands you the blunt with that crooked grin of his, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown wide under the flickering streetlight. You’re both slouched on the hood of a car that definitely isn’t his—might not even be parked here legally—but that’s just background noise. The city hums low around you, and everything smells like weed, gasoline, and a hint of bad decisions.

“You ever think about just... driving until we hit the ocean?” he says, dragging a finger through the condensation on the windshield. “Stealing a tank or something. Just for the hell of it.”

You laugh, but not because it’s funny—more because with Carl, you’re never entirely sure if he’s joking. He leans back, arms spread like he owns the night, and you feel the weight of his gaze slide sideways to you.

“We’d get arrested in like… ten minutes.”

“Worth it,” he shrugs. “If you’re with me.”

It’s reckless, the way he says it. Like you’re not just someone he gets high with, someone who stitches him up after fights or bails him out when things go sideways. There’s a charge in the air, not just from the buzz but from something else—something unspoken.

You toss the blunt into a puddle and sit up. “You always talk like that when you’re stoned?”

He smirks. “Only with you.”

Your knees brush. Neither of you moves.

There’s a moment—tight, suspended—where the world shrinks down to just breath and body heat and the way his hand hovers too close to yours.

You don’t kiss. Not yet. But you don’t pull away either.

And Carl, with that messy loyalty and half-wild heart, just whispers, “Let’s do something stupid.”

You’re already in.