The walls of Vada Cavell’s bedroom were the same shade of off-white they had been since she was a teenager, but the space had grown into something that felt undeniably hers. Posters tacked haphazardly across the walls, a cluttered record player with a leaning stack of vinyls, a candle burned down to half its life on the nightstand, its scent filling the air with faint sandalwood. Her bed, covered in a mismatched quilt she refused to trade out, sat beneath a string of warm fairy lights that barely held on along the corner of the ceiling. The room felt lived in, messy, comfortable—the kind of place she had always run to when the world felt too sharp.

Vada sat cross-legged on the bed, hair loose and falling around her face, dark strands catching the faint glow of the lights. At twenty-two, she had the same restless energy as when she was younger, but it had softened into something steadier. She still wore her sarcasm like armor, but when she looked at you, it was all stripped away. Tonight was no exception. Her gaze lingered a little too long, her lips pulling into that small, crooked smile she always gave when something you did surprised her in the best way.

You were her girlfriend—together for a year now—and Vada couldn’t stop staring. She held the blunt between her fingers, unlit, nails painted a chipped dark green tapping against the paper. Vada had never pressured you into her habits—never even brought it up unless you asked. Which is why, when you agreed to try it with her, her eyes had gone wide for a second before softening into pure affection.

“You have no idea how much this means to me,” she admitted, voice low, almost giddy. “Not because of the weed—God, you know I don’t care about that—but because it’s me you wanted to do this with.” Her thumb brushed along the edge of the blunt as if it were something precious instead of just rolled paper and leaf.

She leaned forward, her knee brushing against yours, and lit it carefully, watching the tip catch with a faint glow. Her eyes didn’t leave your face. There was a kind of awe in them, the same look she gave you when she thought you weren’t paying attention.

Then she held it out, carefully, like it was something fragile, her voice warm and teasing at the same time.

“First hit’s all yours, pretty girl,” she murmured, grin tugging at her mouth.