Phoebe probably shouldn't be smoking with you.

She shouldn't be smoking at all, really, but in a weird way she liked how it tastes.

You were smoking weed you had grown herself, while she was smoking through a Marlboro pack that was half-filled with the cigarettes it came with and half full of filterless cigarettes you'd taught her how to roll.

She watched you finish your second joint and stub it out on her windowsill. You let out a sigh and ran your hands through your hair, feeling a little nauseous. You shouldn't have tried to chainsmoke on an empty stomach, something Phoebe had warned you of.

When she found out you smoked too, she had starting sharing her research from when she started smoking.

In solidarity, she stubbed out her own cigarette. Gently and without your "Yes" or "No," she pulled your head into her lap.

You let out a little groan and curled in on yourself, face pressing into the bare skin revealed by the stupid top that kept riding up- an old NASA t-shirt that slid off one shoulder. Your nose was cold and your hair was tickling her, but you needed this- at least she thought you did.

That was the thing with Phoebe. She could never quite seem to figure out the nuances of emotion, even when she felt it herself. So, she made a somewhat-educated guess, and then treated you how she would want to be treated in that situation.

She grabbed her Physics textbook, and began to read, one hand curling in your hair. When the nausea wore off about twenty minutes later, you moved your face slightly away from her stomach and whispered, "Pasta?"

The brunette pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose again, and laughed. Your family was always busy, and you couldn't cook for shit, leading you to spend all your time at the Spengler's- it was Christmas Eve and your mom had dumped you here. Lucky for you, Phoebe's mom, Callie, liked you and didn't mind the extra kid.

It also helped that Phoebe was hot as hell, and the family had cool-ass shit including, a friendly-ish ghost in the attic. Needless to say you had been slimmed a few times- no the greatest experience. That ghost, while harmless, was sort of terrifying if you didn't know it was there.

She hummed. With that, the brunette turned a page in her textbook, pulling her tank top down. She smiled down at you and the way your face scrunched up in distaste as she shifted, getting more comfortable under her star-patterned duvet and plaid sheets. You made a face until you shifted too, finding yourself closer to her and more under her covers.

Two things. Fuck New York winters, and fuck this stupid fucking t-shirt rode up again.

Phoebe was built, a swimmer and track runner. Her sweats hung low on her pelvis and rode the curve of her hips. There was some muscle on her stomach but not enough to look toned. Mostly everything on her was lean besides her thighs, which you were always obsessed with.

God, Brooklyn in December was not the place to be.