But I think my seventeen-year-old self would be so damn tempted towards that image. I think she would want it to be true.

I watch Connor blow a line of gray smoke from his lips, not hacking up a lung like me.

I attempt to glower at him, but it loses its potency when I’m choking on air.

“Here…” Connor tosses a throw-blanket over our heads, caging us in a man-made tent. He pinches the joint between his fingers, places it between his lips, and sucks deeply. His eyes stay on mine, and I wonder if he wants me to study him, so I can do it right next time. But he would have uttered a smartass remark about “tutoring” me.

Even so, I scrutinize the way he inhales deeply, the smoke sucking down his throat. I’ve never found smoking sexy—not until now, when my overly intelligent, cocky boyfriend exhales like a champion, a god, some immortal being with a grin that could light the world and create an eighth great wonder.

And I would NEVER say this to him. Just so we have this clear. I narrow my eyes so he can’t read the high praises and exaggerations on my face. But he’s near laughter, so I must be doing something wrong then. I reach for the joint, and he shakes his head. He takes another long drag, but this time, he keeps his mouth closed, holding in the smoke.

Then he grabs the back of my head with one authoritative hand. Before I blink, my lips touch his and part on command. Smoke rushes into my mouth and tickles the back of my throat. An incoming cough threatens to ruin my high once more. But Connor stifles it with a kiss, his tongue slipping into my mouth, easing the sensations. I breathe in his intoxicated air, and he takes on mine, the most intimate kissing experience I’ve ever been swept into. Breath for breath. Inhale, exhale.

His fingers run through my soft hair, and with his other hand, he urges me onto his lap. I straddle his waist, and yet, it feels like he’s more in control of the moment than me.

It spikes my pulse with pleasure, and I swoop my arms around his neck. When our lips finally break apart, we both blow a small puff of smoke up in the air. Our grins are unmistakable.

“Let’s do it again,” I say, excited to finally inhale without my throat burning in refute. I sincerely thought my body wouldn’t allow poison to flow through it. Good job, body.

“Every junkie’s favorite words,” he says with a playful smile.

“Weed isn’t that bad,” I rebut.

He takes a small hit and then blows the smoke away from my face. Our tent has filled with the thick smoke and pungent smell, hotboxing our little area. We’re going to reek.

“You’re right,” Connor says dryly and appraises the joint. “It doesn’t fry brain cells. Only kills ambition. How can that be worse?”

Anything that makes a person into a lesser version of themselves is malevolent. At least in Connor Cobalt’s mind.

I’m not going to ruin this by arguing with him. “I do have one problem with it,” I admit.

He raises his brows in curiosity.

“The smell,” I say. “It’s disgusting. Worse than cigarettes. I’m going to have to bathe in bleach.”

He smiles and kisses me deeply. I love that. Drawing a man in with my opinions and words. It feels headier than enticing him with my body—though I enjoy that too.

When we part, I say, “Someone would make a lot of money if they invented odorless weed. Oh! Or perfumed marijuana!” I giggle. Giggle. That high-frequency girly noise is so unfamiliar. This hotbox is definitely working.

He kisses me again, silencing my laughter and filling my lungs with smoke and delight.

We stay under the blanket for a while. When I try touching my face, my hands move in slow motion, and my leg seems to take forever to shift, too sluggish to really go anywhere. So I stay positioned on Connor’s lap. But when I turn my head, it speeds faster than the rest of me, like it’s not attached to my body. It’s a weird combination that has me in a fit for two minutes. Was it two minutes?

Connor watches me, drinking water, and when he tries to pass the bottle in my direction, I reach out and hit his elbow. I laugh again.

“Here,” he says. He puts the rim to my lips and tilts the bottle up, helping me drink. The water feels good against my sandpapered throat. After wiping my lips, I become suddenly entranced by the buttons on his shirt. My fingers play with them. Wow. The buttons fit perfectly into that little hole. Such simple mathematics, and yet someone, somewhere discovered it first.

Connor says very little. I like the silence. It makes all the feelings stronger. Like how he brushes his fingers through my hair. Each part of me becomes more sensitive than the next.

“I’m hungry,” I suddenly say.

“I know the solution.” He scoops me up quickly, tossing the blanket aside. My heart races faster than before. He nuzzles his nose into my neck. “Time to feed you.”

I laugh, his skin tickling mine as we exit the room. I don’t care that we’re venturing into the camera-filled house. It’s not like we’re smoking on camera. No one has proof of anything.

And plus, it’s past Savannah, Brett, and Ben’s hours. They’re probably fast asleep in their own homes, leaving the cameras on the walls and in the rafters to film us.

Connor descends the stairs with me in his arms. Once we reach the main level, he sets my feet on the ground. The living room is right there. But Lily and Lo have their backs to us on the couch, staring at the television above the fireplace mantel. They stayed barricaded in their room for a full week before Scott apologized. Which Lo said was “half-assed and insincere,” but it was enough for them to finally venture downstairs.

I open my mouth to speak.

“Shh,” Connor whispers softly, pressing his fingers to my lips. We both smile. Why is that so funny?

We stay hidden by…nothing really. They can see us in the open space if they just turn around, but they’re both absorbed by the movie.

“Why are we watching this?” Loren asks.

“Because you need to know why I think you’re Peter Pan incarnate,” Lily replies.

I’m about to laugh again. I really don’t know why, but Connor covers my mouth with his hand to suppress my noises. How is he keeping me standing with just one arm?

He’s strong, Rose, don’t be stupid. Oh my God. Does weed make you stupid?

“And if I’m Peter Pan, who would you be? Wendy?”

“No,” Lily says. “Wendy chooses mortality over the boy she loves. I would be…” There’s a long pause, and I run my tongue against Connor’s palm.

He presses his lips together, trying so hard not to laugh.

“Tinkerbell,” Lily concludes. “She never leaves Pan. She loves him more than anything.”

“So you’re like my little fairy?” Lo asks, but I sense the adoration behind his words.

And yet, as cute as it is, Connor and I can’t keep our laughter in. It bursts forth and crushes our secrecy.

Their heads spin over their shoulders, catching us beside the staircase with crinkled brows.

“What the hell are you two doing?” Lo asks with the tilt of his head, scrutinizing our positions and faces and—what else is there to look at?

“My feet,” I say.

Connor has to bury his mouth into my neck to smother his next bout of laughter. Mine comes out full-force, no stopping that.

“What?” Lily squints at us in confusion.

Connor hunches over to rest his chin on my shoulder before he says, “We’re eating.”

Lily gasps. “Are you stoned?” She’s up off the couch before I can throw out an excuse. She’s not even ten feet near us and she stumbles back and pinches her nose. “Ugh.” She gags. “I hate that smell.”

Loren wears a supreme grin. “You two…” He shakes his head as he sidles next to his girlfriend. “Who would have thought the most responsible people in this house are the ones who get baked? Congratulations, you officially fit in our group.”