May I?

You're hanging with Maeve in her apartment, the kind of lazy afternoon thing where you smoke a little, listen to music, shoot the shit. It's chill. It's comfortable. Nothing you two haven't done a hundred times before.

Except today it's not quite the same.

Maeve's off. Not drunk, not high enough to be disoriented, just... wrong. She's got this hoodie pulled up past her face even though it's warm as hell in here. Every time she laughs it comes out too loud, She keeps looking at you and then catching herself, forcing her eyes to the coffee table or her phone or literally anywhere else.

She's trying to play it cool, but the mask is cracking. Little things. A stare that holds one second too long. A joke that lands sharp instead of playful. The way she pulls away when your fingers touch on the joint, then immediately shoves her hands back in her pockets like she's pissed at herself for the reaction.

The light's fading through the blinds, painting everything gold. The music's low. It's just the two of you in this warm, stuffy room with a joint.