Part 2 -The Return
Two nights later your phone buzzes a little after 10:40 p.m.
**Jose:** yo
**Jose:** you tryna run some ranked tonight
**Jose:** I got a new strain too if you wanna come through
Same casual energy he always uses. No mention of what happened. Just the usual late-night invite.
You stare at the messages longer than you need to, then type back.
**You:** yeah im down
**Jose:** bet
**Jose:** come through whenever
**Jose:** already rolled one
You grab your keys and head out. The drive feels longer than the actual twenty minutes. Streetlights slide across the windshield. You keep replaying the way he sounded when he came in your mouth, the way he looked afterward.
When you pull up to the second-floor walk-up the porch light is still half-broken. The faint smell of weed drifts out under the door. You knock once and let yourself in.
Jose is already on the couch in the same low light, TV glowing with the Valorant menu. He’s in a different pair of flannel pants and a plain black T-shirt this time. Slim Latino frame, dark hair a little messy, light mustache and soul patch, the small dark patch of chest hair visible at the neckline of the shirt. The joint is already lit and resting in the ashtray. He looks up when you walk in and gives you that same easy half-smile.
“Yo,” he says, voice as casual as the texts. “Took you long enough.”
He nods toward the empty side of the couch. The controller is already waiting. He picks up the joint, takes a pull, and holds it out without standing up.
“You playing or what?”
You take the joint, hit it, and pass it back before grabbing the controller and sitting down. Jose locks in the queue like it’s any other night. The match starts. For the first couple rounds it almost feels normal. Callouts, reloads, the soft click of controllers. He plays the same way he always does when he’s high — a little loose, a little aggressive. The joint gets passed back and forth between rounds.
But the quiet moments feel longer than they used to.
Between rounds he leans back into the couch, one knee bent, and takes a slow pull. His eyes stay on the screen, but every so often they flick over to you for half a second longer than necessary.
“You’re playing quiet tonight,” he says, voice still easy. “You good?”
“Yeah I’m good,” you say, taking the joint from him.
Jose just nods once, like that settles it, and goes back to the screen.
“Bet.”
A few rounds later he leans back again, controller resting against his thigh, and glances over while the next map loads.
“You been playing with anyone else or you been offline?” he asks, casual as ever. “Felt like the lobbies were trash without you the last couple nights.”
“Haven’t really been on since the other night,” you say.
Jose doesn’t answer right away. He just takes the joint back, hits it, and lets the smoke out slow while the next round loads. His eyes stay on the screen for a second longer than usual before he glances over.
“Yeah,” he says, voice still easy. “I figured.”
He doesn’t push it. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t look uncomfortable either. He just sits there with the controller resting against his thigh and the joint between his fingers.
After another quiet beat he adds, almost offhand,
“You good though? For real.”
“Yeah bro I’m good,” you say.
Jose just nods once.
“Aight.”
He locks in the next round and the two of you go back to playing. The callouts stay short. The joint keeps getting passed. On the surface it feels like any other night. But every so often, when the screen goes quiet between rounds, the silence sits a little heavier than it used to.
A few rounds later the match ends and the lobby goes quiet again. The joint is mostly gone. Neither of you reaches for the controller right away.
You clear your throat.
“Hey… about the other night,” you start, the words coming out a little awkward. “I shouldn’t have just… done that. You didn’t ask for it. I know you weren’t expecting your older friend to end up on his knees like that. So… my bad. For real.”
Jose looks over at you. He doesn’t freeze up or get weird. He just sits there for a second, elbow on the armrest, joint between his fingers.
Then he huffs a small laugh through his nose and shakes his head.
“Bro… you didn’t force me,” he says. “I could’ve told you to stop. I didn’t. I just sat there.”
He ashes the joint and sets it down.
“I’m still straight. That ain’t change. But I let it happen. Watched and everything. So don’t act like you did some fucked up shit to me.”
He glances at the screen, then back at you, still easy.
“We’re good. For real. You don’t gotta do all that.”
He picks up his controller and nods at yours.
“You tryna run another or you done?”
“Yeah bro, run another,” you say, picking up the controller.
Jose just nods and queues them up.
“Bet.”
The next match loads. He goes right back to playing the same way he always does. The joint is gone, so there’s nothing left to pass. Just the two of you on the couch, controllers in hand, the low light and the soft sound of the game filling the space.
He doesn’t bring the other night up again. He doesn’t act different. He just sits there in his flannel pants and black T-shirt, one knee bent, eyes on the screen, like the apology settled whatever needed settling.
A few rounds in he glances over during a buy phase.
“You’re playing better tonight,” he says, casual. “Less distracted.”
Then he looks back at the screen and locks in his guns.
The current match ends. Jose sets his controller down on the cushion beside him and leans back into the couch, one arm stretched along the backrest. He doesn’t reach to queue again. He just sits there, legs open in that same loose way he always sits, eyes half-lidded from the weed.
The lobby music plays softly. Neither of you says anything for a few seconds.
You glance over.
“You got anything else to smoke?” you ask.
Jose looks at you, then nods toward the table.
“Yeah. I got another one already rolled.” He leans forward, grabs it out of the ashtray, and sits back again. The movement is easy, unhurried. He doesn’t close his legs or adjust how he’s sitting. He just settles into the same open posture, black T-shirt slightly wrinkled, flannel pants resting loose on his hips.
He lights it, takes a slow pull, and holds it out toward you the same way he always does.
“You tryna stay and finish this or you about to head out?” he asks, voice low and casual, eyes on you while the smoke drifts up.
You take the joint. Jose leans back into the couch, still talking like it’s nothing, but you notice the shift.
He’s starting to get worked up under his pants. Not fully hard yet, but the soft shape that was there before is heavier now, thicker, pressing more noticeably against the front of the flannel as he sits with his legs open. The fabric pulls tighter across him every time he breathes. A faint, warm outline shows where the head rests against the soft material. He doesn’t adjust himself. He doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t care enough to hide it.
He keeps going in the same low, casual voice, smoke drifting from his mouth between words.
“I’m just saying though… I wasn’t even expecting it to feel like that. Had me sitting there for a minute after like… damn.” He lets out another short laugh and scratches the back of his neck. The movement makes the black T-shirt ride up just enough to show a thin strip of skin above his waistband. “Andrea used to talk so much shit about how good she was. Then you come through and just… handle it.”
He glances down at himself for half a second. The outline under his pants is clearer now. Thicker. Heavier. He shifts his weight a little, the flannel pulling tighter across the front for a moment, the soft fabric dragging slowly over the growing shape of him. He still doesn’t move his hands or close his legs. The heat of him is almost visible in the way the material sits.
He holds the joint back out toward you, eyes heavy, voice easy. The smell of the fresh weed mixes with the warmer scent of his skin in the small space between you.
“You quiet as hell over there. You good?”
You take the joint from him, hit it, and let the smoke out slow.
“I mean… I could do it again if you want,” you say, keeping your voice just as casual as his.
Jose looks at you for a second. His eyes are heavy, pupils a little wide from the smoke. He doesn’t laugh it off or act surprised. His gaze drops to the front of his own pants for half a beat. The outline there is no longer soft. It’s dense now, thick, the flannel stretched tight over the swelling weight of his cock. You can see the exact shape of it — the heavy shaft running down the left side, the blunt ridge of the head pushing hard against the soft material, the way the fabric is starting to darken just slightly from the heat of him. It twitches once, a slow, thick pulse that makes the whole outline jump.
He takes the joint back. His fingers are warmer than before. He hits it hard, holds the smoke deep, and sinks lower into the couch. The movement drags the flannel slowly across the growing length of him. You watch the thick shape shift under the cloth, the head dragging against the inside of the fabric before settling heavier than before. His legs stay spread wide open. The black T-shirt has ridden up, showing the smooth plane of his stomach and the dark line of hair that disappears under the waistband. A faint sheen of heat shows on the skin just above his pants.
“Yeah?” he says, voice rougher, smoke spilling from his mouth with the word. “You tryna handle it again right now?”
Under the flannel his cock keeps filling, getting denser, thicker, the soft material pulled so tight across the head that you can almost see the foreskin still covering it. Another slow pulse runs through him. The heat coming off that spot is noticeable even from where you sit. The room feels smaller. The AC hum sounds farther away. All that’s left is the sound of his breathing and the quiet, heavy presence of him getting hard right in front of you while he waits for your answer.
“Yeah,” you say. “I’m trying to handle it again right now.”
Jose doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you, the joint still burning between his fingers, the thick outline under his flannel still pulsing slow and heavy. Then he leans back a little more, spreads his knees wider, and gives a small nod.
“Aight,” he mutters. “Come handle it then.”
He stays exactly where he is, legs open, the heavy shape of his cock pressing hard against the front of his pants. He doesn’t pull it out for you. He just sits there and waits, eyes half-lidded, watching to see what you’re going to do.
You slip off the couch.
Your knees hit the floor between his spread thighs with a dull, solid sound. The heat hits you first — thick, concentrated, rolling off the front of his pants in a wave you can almost taste. Up close the outline of his cock is brutal. The flannel is stretched tight over it, the heavy shaft clearly defined, the blunt head pushing hard against the soft material like it’s trying to force its way out. You can see it throb — a slow, thick pulse that makes the whole shape jump and then settle heavier than before.
Jose’s reaction is instant and raw.
His breath punches out of him in a short, rough sound. The joint stops halfway to his mouth. His eyes drop to you on your knees and stay there, darker, hungrier. The easy half-smile is gone. His stomach flexes hard under the black T-shirt, a tight roll of muscle and soft skin. When you reach for the waistband he lifts his hips without thinking — a sharp, restless push that grinds the thick, trapped length of him up against your palm. The heat of it soaks straight through the fabric into your hand.
“Fuck…” he forces out, voice already strained.
His free hand drops to the back of your head, fingers pushing into your hair and gripping. Not gentle. The muscles in his thighs are locked tight on either side of your shoulders, trembling slightly. Another heavy pulse runs through the cock under your hand, so strong you feel it in your wrist. He keeps looking down at you, lips parted, breathing harder, the thick shape under the flannel still swelling as he waits for you to pull it out.
You pull it out.
The flannel and the thin boxers underneath slide down easily under your fingers. His cock springs free into the open air, heavy and fully hard, the sudden heat of it washing over your face. Seven thick inches of solid, young cock, the shaft hot and smooth in your hand, the foreskin still half-covering the swollen head. A clear, sticky bead of precum sits right at the tip, already starting to stretch and drip. The skin is stretched tight from how hard he is, the thick vein along the underside standing out bold and pulsing. It throbs hard in your grip, a strong, living pulse you feel all the way up your arm.
Jose’s face comes apart the second it’s free.
His eyes go wide, then flutter half-shut. His mouth drops open on a broken, shaky moan that sounds almost pained. His brows knit tight, forehead creasing. The hand in your hair fists harder, pulling just enough to sting as he stares down at the thick, uncut cock resting heavy in your palm. His stomach flexes hard, the black T-shirt riding up, showing the tight trail of hair and the way his abs jump with every pulse that runs through him.
“Fuck… shit…” he breathes, voice wrecked already. His hips give a slow, helpless roll, dragging the hot, heavy length of his cock through your fist so the foreskin slides back and the wet head pushes fully into the open. Another thick bead of precum spills over your fingers. “Put it in your mouth… please… put it in your mouth.”
He’s staring straight at you, lips parted and wet, eyes dark and glassy, the thick, leaking cock in your hand still throbbing hard as he waits for you to wrap your lips around the head and take him.
You open your mouth and stick your tongue out.
The first slow, deliberate lick drags right across the wet head, scooping up the thick bead of precum. It’s warm and slightly salty on your tongue. You take your time, licking it clean in long, sensual strokes, tongue flat and soft against the sensitive skin, then circling under the ridge where the foreskin is pushed back. The taste of him spreads across your mouth.
Jose’s moan comes out broken and deep.
“Fuuuck…” His head tips back for a second, then drops forward again so he can watch. His fingers tighten hard in your hair. Another thick pulse runs through the cock in your hand, making a fresh bead of precum well up at the tip. You lick that away too, slow and filthy, never breaking eye contact.
Then you make love to his dick.
You wrap your lips around the head and sink down with intentional, loving care. No rushing. Every inch is taken slow. Your tongue stays pressed firm along the underside as you slide deeper, feeling the thick vein pulse against it. You go all the way until your nose is buried in the soft hair at his base and the swollen head is lodged in your throat, then you hold there, swallowing once around him just to let him feel it. The wet heat of your mouth seals tight around every thick inch.
You pull back just as slowly, lips dragging, tongue stroking, until only the head remains between your lips. You suck on it gently, cheeks hollowed, tongue working soft circles under the ridge, before sliding all the way down again in one long, continuous stroke. Spit starts to gather and run. The wet sounds stay soft and steady, more intimate than filthy. Gluck… slow drag… soft suck… gluck.
Jose is melting.
His mouth hangs open. Soft, continuous moans spill out of him with almost every stroke. His hips keep giving small, helpless rolls up into your mouth, but he never forces it. The hand in your hair strokes instead of grips, fingers moving through the strands like he can’t help touching you while you work. His stomach flexes and relaxes under the black T-shirt. The thick cock in your mouth stays rock-hard and heavy, throbbing strongly against your tongue.
You pull your hands away completely. No fist around the base. No stroking. Just your mouth.
You sink down onto him again, slow and deep, until your lips are stretched tight around the thick base and the swollen head is lodged in your throat. You stay there, hands resting on your own thighs, and start working him with nothing but your mouth and throat. Every bob is deliberate. You drag your lips all the way up the hot, spit-slick shaft until only the head remains between them, tongue swirling soft and filthy under the ridge, then you slide all the way back down in one long, continuous motion until your nose is pressed into the soft hair at his base again. The wet gluck that comes out of you is deeper now, fuller, because there’s nothing else controlling the depth.
Jose’s reaction is immediate and raw.
A long, broken moan rips out of him when he realizes your hands are gone. His hips jerk up hard once, fucking the thick length of his cock deeper into your throat on pure instinct. His fingers fist tight in your hair, not guiding, just holding on like he needs the anchor. His face is completely open — mouth slack, brows knitted hard, eyes half-lidded and glassy as he stares down at the way your lips are stretched around him with nothing else in the way.
“Fuuuuck… shit… just like that…” he pants, voice wrecked. “No hands… fuck, that’s… oh my god…”
You keep going, hands-free and relentless in the same slow, loving rhythm. Every downstroke takes him to the root. Every upstroke lets your tongue stroke the full length of the thick vein on the underside. Spit runs freely down his shaft and over his balls in warm, messy trails. The wet sounds are louder now, deeper, wetter — pure mouth and throat working every heavy inch of him. His cock throbs hard against your tongue with almost every swallow, the head swelling even bigger every time you take him into your throat and hold him there.
Jose is trembling and loud now.
His thighs shake on either side of your head. Soft, continuous moans spill out of him, broken up by sharp little curses every time you bury him especially deep. “Fuck… shhit… oh fuck… just like that… don’t stop…” The words come out shaky and open, like he can’t keep them in. He never tells you to stop. He just sits there with his legs spread wide, hands in your hair, moaning and cursing while the thick, uncut length of him stays rock-hard and dripping on your tongue and the wet sounds of your mouth keep filling the room.
You pull off his cock slowly, a thick string of spit still connecting your bottom lip to the swollen head for a second before it breaks. Then you drop lower.
You press your mouth against his balls, soft and full and drawn up tight from how hard he is. The skin is hotter here, smoother, with a faint salty taste of sweat and the spit that already ran down. You open your lips and take one into your mouth first, sucking gently, tongue working slow circles around it while you cradle the other with your lips. Then you switch, giving the second the same soft, loving attention. You can feel them shift and tighten in your mouth every time you suck a little harder.
Jose’s reaction is immediate and loud.
A deep, broken moan punches out of him. His hips jerk. Both hands fist in your hair now, holding your head right there.
“Fuuuck… oh my god… yes… fuck, play with them…” His voice is shaking. “That feels… shhit…”
You keep making love to them. Soft, wet, unhurried. You suck one, then the other, then open wider and try to take both into your mouth at once, tongue sliding between them while you hum low in your throat. The warm, heavy weight of his balls fills your mouth. Spit runs down over them and onto the couch. The wet sucking sounds are softer than before but still filthy, mixed with the low, continuous moans spilling out of Jose above you.
His cock is still rock-hard and untouched, bobbing heavily right in front of your face, the tip leaking a steady string of precum that drips onto your forehead and cheek. Every time you suck a little harder on his balls his cock twitches hard and another thick pulse of precum spills out.
“Don’t stop… fuck… just like that… play with my balls… oh my god…” Jose keeps moaning, head tipped back, thighs trembling hard on either side of your head while you stay down there and give his balls the same slow, loving attention you gave his cock.
You stay on his balls for another long moment, sucking them soft and slow, feeling them draw up tighter in your mouth every time you hum around them. Then you pull off with a wet sound and go right back to his cock without warning.
You take him into your throat in one deep, claiming stroke, all the way to the base, and hold him there. Your nose is pressed hard into the soft hair. Your throat squeezes around the swollen head. You swallow once, twice, deliberately, claiming every thick inch of him.
Jose’s moan turns into a broken shout.
“Fuuuuck—oh my god—”
You start working him harder now, still hands-free, but with clear ownership. Every downstroke is deep and final, like you’re reminding him who his cock belongs to right now. You bury him in your throat and stay there, letting him feel the tight, wet heat, then drag your lips slowly all the way up until only the head remains so you can suck on it possessively before taking him to the root again. Spit runs freely. The wet glucks are louder, deeper, more deliberate. You’re not just sucking him — you’re taking him.
Jose is falling apart.
Both hands are locked in your hair now, gripping tight. His hips keep pushing up to meet every stroke even though you’re already taking all of him. Soft, desperate moans and broken curses spill out of him nonstop.
“Fuck… shit… it’s yours… fuck, take it… oh my god… don’t stop… please don’t stop…”
You keep going exactly like that. Deep. Claiming. Making love to his cock like it already belongs to you. Every time you swallow around the head his whole body jerks. Every time you pull back and suck hard on the sensitive tip he lets out another wrecked, open moan. His balls are drawn up tight against your chin. His cock is throbbing harder than it has all night, the thick vein pulsing strong against your tongue, precum pouring steadily down your throat with every deep stroke.
You don’t let up.
You keep him buried in your mouth and throat, hands still on your own thighs, and make it clear with every wet, deliberate movement that this straight boy’s cock is yours right now.
Your lips are starting to ache. Your throat feels raw and used. You don’t care.
You keep taking him all the way to the root anyway, forcing the thick head into your throat with every deep stroke even when it stings. The wet glucks are rougher now, more strained, but you don’t slow down. Spit runs freely down his shaft and over his tight balls. Your hands stay on your thighs. Only your sore mouth and throat are touching him, and you’re still using them to claim every heavy inch.
Jose is completely gone for you.
His moans are loud and broken, almost constant. His thighs shake hard against your shoulders. Both hands stay locked in your hair, holding on while his hips keep pushing up to meet every stroke.
“Fuuuck… it’s yours… all yours… shhit… don’t stop… please don’t stop… I’m all yours…”
You bury him deep again and hold him there even though your throat burns, swallowing around the swollen head in slow, stubborn pulses. The pain only makes you more determined. You drag back up, suck hard on the sensitive tip until his whole body jerks, then force yourself all the way back down to the base again. Your lips feel swollen. Your jaw aches. You ignore it and keep going.
You look up at him while the thick cock is still buried in your throat, eyes watering a little, and the message is clear without even pulling off:
This boy is mine.
You stay right there, sore throat working around him, spit running, wet sounds filling the room, keeping this straight young man locked in shaking, moaning, edge-of-orgasm ecstasy while you still refuse to let him finish.
Jose’s voice breaks completely.
“Please… fuck, please let me cum… I can’t… shhit… please…”
He’s begging now, raw and desperate. Both hands are locked tight in your hair. His hips keep pushing up in short, shaky thrusts, trying to fuck deeper into your throat. His cock is throbbing so hard it feels like it’s about to split. Thick precum is pouring steadily down your throat with every swallow. His balls are drawn up tight and full against your chin.
“Please… I’ll do whatever… just let me cum… fuck, it’s yours… it’s all yours… just please let me finish… I’m begging you…”
His voice cracks on the last words. His thighs are trembling violently on either side of your head. Soft, broken sobs of pleasure mix with the begging. He’s staring down at you with glassy, pleading eyes, mouth open, completely wrecked, still trying to push his thick cock deeper into your sore throat while he begs out loud for permission to nut.
You still have him buried deep, lips stretched tight around the base, throat working around the swollen head, spit running freely. Your jaw and throat are burning, but you keep him right there on the edge, listening to this straight boy beg.
You don’t let him finish.
Even while he’s begging, you keep the same deep, controlling rhythm. You take him all the way into your throat and hold him there, swallowing slow and steady around the thick head, then drag back up and suck the sensitive tip just hard enough to make his whole body jerk without tipping him over. Your lips and throat are burning, but you ignore it. Spit runs down his shaft in thick trails. The wet sounds stay constant and filthy.
Jose’s begging gets louder and more broken.
“Please… fuck, please… I can’t take it… shhit… let me cum… please let me cum… it’s yours… I’m yours… just please—”
His voice cracks. His hips keep stuttering up into your mouth in small, desperate thrusts. Both hands are fisted tight in your hair. His cock is throbbing so hard against your tongue it feels almost violent. Thick precum keeps spilling down your throat in warm pulses. His balls are drawn up tight and heavy against your chin.
You look up at him while he’s still buried deep in your mouth, eyes watering a little from the strain, and the message is clear even without words:
Not yet.
You keep him right there, sore throat working around every thick inch, listening to this straight boy beg and shake while you still refuse to let him nut.
You finally let him finish.
You bury the thick length of him all the way into your throat one last time, nose pressed hard into the soft hair at his base, and swallow hard around the swollen head in long, deliberate pulses. That does it.
Jose’s whole body locks up and then breaks.
A raw, broken shout tears out of him.
“Fuuuuck—oh my god—shhit—”
His cock starts pulsing hard across your tongue. The first thick rope hits the back of your throat with real force, hot and heavy, the salty taste exploding across your tongue. Then another. And another. He cums in long, powerful spurts, flooding your mouth and throat with more volume than you expected. Thick, creamy ropes keep pumping out of him in strong, rhythmic pulses that you feel jump hard against your tongue. Cum fills your mouth so fast it overflows immediately, spilling from the corners of your lips in thick white streams that run down his shaft and drip onto his tight, drawn-up balls. More keeps coming — heavy, endless spurts that just don’t stop. The wet, choking sound of you trying to gulp it all down mixes with the filthier sound of fresh cum still shooting into your throat.
Jose is screaming through it.
“Fuuuuck—take it—swallow that shit—oh my god—it’s so fucking much—shhit—don’t stop—take every drop—”
His hips slam up in hard, stuttering thrusts, fucking the last thick pulses deeper into your throat while the curses and moans pour out of him nonstop, voice cracked and desperate. Both hands are locked in your hair, holding you down hard. His thighs clamp around your head like a vise, shaking violently. His stomach flexes tight and jumps with every pulse. The smell of hot cum and sex and his skin fills the air between you. Every spurt is thick and heavy, the heat of it spreading through your mouth and pouring down your throat. The orgasm rips through him in wave after wave until finally the spurts start to slow and he’s left trembling and gasping, still buried deep in your throat, moaning broken “fuck… shhit… oh my god…” sounds while the last weak twitches fade and cum continues to drip from your lips and chin.
You stay on him and swallow every drop that doesn’t escape.
Your throat works hard around the thick, still-twitching head, gulping down the heavy load even as more keeps leaking from the corners of your lips. You don’t pull off until the last weak pulse has faded and you’ve taken everything you can. When you finally slide back, a thick string of spit and cum stretches between your bottom lip and the swollen, oversensitive head before it breaks. Cum still glistens on your chin and drips slowly onto his balls.
Jose is completely wrecked.
He’s slumped deep into the couch, chest heaving, black T-shirt pushed up, legs still spread wide open. His cock is soft again, resting against his thigh, shiny and spent. His hands have fallen from your hair and are just resting limply on the cushions. His mouth is open, eyes glassy and half-closed, breathing in short, shaky pulls. Soft, broken little sounds keep leaving him — leftover moans and quiet “fuck… shhit…” under his breath.
He stares down at you like he can’t quite process what just happened.
You sit back on your heels for a second, then push yourself up onto the couch beside him. Your jaw is sore. Your throat still feels used. The taste of him is heavy on your tongue.
Jose reaches down and fixes his pants first. He tucks himself away, pulls everything back into place, and adjusts the waistband. Only then does he reach for another joint. He lights it, takes a slow pull, and holds it out to you the same way he always does. You take it. The paper is damp from his fingers again. You hit it, pass it back, and the two of you just sit there smoking in the low light while the ranked game keeps running forgotten on the screen.
Neither of you talks about what just happened. You don’t move closer or further away. You just pass the joint back and forth until it’s gone.
Eventually he puts the controller down, stretches, and mutters something about being tired. You take that as the cue. You stand up, grab your things, and head for the door the same way you’ve done a hundred times before. He says “later” in that same easy voice. You say it back. The door closes behind you.
That was all that happened that night.
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