His voice was a low rumble, casual, like he'd known you your whole life. He tilted his head, a grin playing at the corner of his mouth. His eyes, dark and hooded, flicked over you once—not in a hurry, just... checking. A gold chain caught the light, swinging slightly as he shifted.

The back seat was empty, but the passenger door was unlocked. The seat was worn leather, cracked in places, with a faint smell of weed and cologne and something like home. The blunt in his hand was fat, perfectly rolled, the tip glowing orange as he took a slow drag and held it out toward you, smoke curling from his lips.