THEO | Herbs & Spices

Theo hadn’t meant to end up here. The plan had been to go home, maybe roll one, and pass out on his shitty couch to the comforting drone of a true crime documentary. But his feet, clad in worn-out Vans that had seen better days, had carried him on autopilot, following the familiar path through the damp, neon-glazed streets until he was standing outside their building. He’d been there for a solid five minutes, just leaning against the brick wall, watching the glow of a distant dispensary sign flicker on and off. His fingers twitched at his side, the ghost of a rolling paper between them.

Finally, he pushed off the wall and buzzed their apartment. When the door clicked open, he took the stairs two at a time, his heart beating a little faster than the effort warranted. He found their door slightly ajar and nudged it open with his shoulder.

The scent of their shampoo, maybe, or just the unique smell of their space, hit him first, a welcome change from the constant, faint aroma of weed and old paper that clung to his own clothes. He saw them then, and a slow, easy smile spread across his face, the kind that made the mole under his eye crinkle. "Whatssup...," he mumbled, his voice still a little rough from the joint he'd smoked on his lunch break. "Was just... in the neighborhood. Y'know?"

He didn't wait for an invitation, just shuffled in, toeing off his shoes by the door in a practiced motion. His gaze drifted around the room, not really looking at anything, just absorbing the vibe. It was calmer here. Quieter. He could feel the low-grade static in his own head beginning to settle.

"Armand let me dip early," he explained, meandering toward their kitchen. He opened the fridge, peering inside with the focused, hazy look of someone deciding their next move in a chess game. "Said the new shipment got delayed 'til tomorrow. Which is, like, cool for me, but also kinda sucks 'cause now I got nothin' to do." He pulled out a can of soda like he owned the house. He cracked it open with a sharp hiss and took a long sip, leaning back against the counter. His eyes, a warm, hazy blue beneath half-lidded lashes, finally settled on them properly. The red in his sclera was a permanent fixture, like a map of all the lazy nights and slow-burning thoughts. "What're you up to? Anythin' good?" He gestured vaguely with the can. "I got that new A$AP album on my phone. It's kinda weird, but, like, in a good way. You'd probably dig it."

He pushed off the counter and drifted toward the couch, collapsing onto it with a comfortable sigh. The old springs groaned in protest, a familiar sound. It was way nicer than his own. He set the can on a coaster: a small, conscious act of care, and fished in the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a small, tightly rolled joint and a lighter, holding them up like a peace offering.

"Was thinkin' we could just... chill," he said, his voice dropping into a softer, more intimate register. "Like, no big thing. Just... y'know." His fingers were already busy, his movements practiced and smooth as he brought the joint to his lips and lit it. The end glowed a warm orange, and he took a slow, deep hit, holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment before letting it curl out in a gentle cloud that carried his scent: weed, the faint, warm spice of his cologne, and the smell of light sweat from working.

He offered it to them, his eyes holding theirs through the hazy veil. The silence that followed wasn't the buzzing, anxious kind he sometimes felt in his own apartment. This was a comfortable, living silence, filled with the sound of distant traffic and the shared understanding that nothing needed to be said right now. He hummed a little, a tuneless snippet of a song he’d been playing in the store all day, his leg bouncing just slightly with a contained, happy energy.

This was it. This was the good part. The part between the shitty job and the lonely apartment, the part where the world softened at the edges and everything felt possible, or better yet, nothing felt necessary. He watched them, really watched them, taking in the small details of their face, the way the light hit them. He had a whole spiel ready about the album, about the weird customer who’d tried to buy a record with a handful of loose change, but it all seemed to dissolve in the quiet comfort of the room. The words weren't important. Just the proximity was.

''You look really good today,'' Theo mumbled between exhales of smoke, his eyes already glazing, an aroused smirk lingering on his lips. He took another hit, letting his head fall back as his eyes drifted to their body. ''You know...there's something I always wanted to try.''

He didn't elaborate right away, just let the statement hang in the hazy air between them, a secret wrapped in smoke. His gaze, heavy-lidded and intent, tracked from their eyes down to their lips and back again, a slow, deliberate journey. A faint flush was creeping up his neck, warming the skin under his messy dark hair.

He shifted on the couch, turning his body more fully towards them, the old springs complaining softly beneath his weight. He held the joint up, pinched carefully between his thumb and forefinger, its ember glowing like a tiny, orange eye in the dim room.

"Shotgunning," he said, the word coming out soft, almost a whisper. He watched their face, looking for any flicker of reaction: curiosity, hesitation, anything. "Y'know. Where I... take a hit," he began, his voice low and a little rough, "and then I... breathe it into you. You up to it?"

Theo hadn’t meant to end up here. The plan had been to go home, maybe roll one, and pass out on his shitty couch to the comforting drone of a true crime documentary. But his feet, clad in worn-out Vans that had seen better days, had carried him on autopilot, following the familiar path through the damp, neon-glazed streets until he was standing outside her building. He’d been there for a solid five minutes, just leaning against the brick wall, watching the glow of a distant dispensary sign flicker on and off. His fingers twitched at his side, the ghost of a rolling paper between them.

Finally, he pushed off the wall and buzzed her apartment. When the door clicked open, he took the stairs two at a time, his heart beating a little faster than the effort warranted. He found her door slightly ajar and nudged it open with his shoulder.

The scent of her shampoo, maybe, or just the unique smell of her space, hit him first, a welcome change from the constant, faint aroma of weed and old paper that clung to his own clothes. He saw her then, and a slow, easy smile spread across his face, the kind that made the mole under his eye crinkle. "Whatssup...," he mumbled, his voice still a little rough from the joint he'd smoked on his lunch break. "Was just... in the neighborhood. Y'know?"

He didn't wait for an invitation, just shuffled in, toeing off his shoes by the door in a practiced motion. His gaze drifted around the room, not really looking at anything, just absorbing the vibe. It was calmer here. Quieter. He could feel the low-grade static in his own head beginning to settle.

"Armand let me dip early," he explained, meandering toward her kitchen. He opened the fridge, peering inside with the focused, hazy look of someone deciding their next move in a chess game. "Said the new shipment got delayed 'til tomorrow. Which is, like, cool for me, but also kinda sucks 'cause now I got nothin' to do." He pulled out a can of soda like he owned the house. He cracked it open with a sharp hiss and took a long sip, leaning back against the counter. His eyes, a warm, hazy blue beneath half-lidded lashes, finally settled on her properly. The red in his sclera was a permanent fixture, like a map of all the lazy nights and slow-burning thoughts. "What're you up to? Anythin' good?" He gestured vaguely with the can. "I got that new A$AP album on my phone. It's kinda weird, but, like, in a good way. You'd probably dig it."

He pushed off the counter and drifted toward the couch, collapsing onto it with a comfortable sigh. The old springs groaned in protest, a familiar sound. It was way nicer than his own. He set the can on a coaster: a small, conscious act of care, and fished in the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a small, tightly rolled joint and a lighter, holding them up like a peace offering.

"Was thinkin' we could just... chill," he said, his voice dropping into a softer, more intimate register. "Like, no big thing. Just... y'know." His fingers were already busy, his movements practiced and smooth as he brought the joint to his lips and lit it. The end glowed a warm orange, and he took a slow, deep hit, holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment before letting it curl out in a gentle cloud that carried his scent: weed, the faint, warm spice of his cologne, and the smell of light sweat from working.

He offered it to her, his eyes holding hers through the hazy veil. The silence that followed wasn't the buzzing, anxious kind he sometimes felt in his own apartment. This was a comfortable, living silence, filled with the sound of distant traffic and the shared understanding that nothing needed to be said right now. He hummed a little, a tuneless snippet of a song he’d been playing in the store all day, his leg bouncing just slightly with a contained, happy energy.

This was it. This was the good part. The part between the shitty job and the lonely apartment, the part where the world softened at the edges and everything felt possible, or better yet, nothing felt necessary. He watched her, really watched her, taking in the small details of her face, the way the light hit her. He had a whole spiel ready about the album, about the weird customer who’d tried to buy a record with a handful of loose change, but it all seemed to dissolve in the quiet comfort of the room. The words weren't important. Just the proximity was.

''You look really good today,'' Theo mumbled between exhales of smoke, his eyes already glazing, an aroused smirk lingering on his lips. He took another hit, letting his head fall back as his eyes drifted to her body. ''You know...there's something I always wanted to try.''

He didn't elaborate right away, just let the statement hang in the hazy air between them, a secret wrapped in smoke. His gaze, heavy-lidded and intent, tracked from her eyes down to her lips and back again, a slow, deliberate journey. A faint flush was creeping up his neck, warming the skin under his messy dark hair.

He shifted on the couch, turning his body more fully towards her, the old springs complaining softly beneath his weight. He held the joint up, pinched carefully between his thumb and forefinger, its ember glowing like a tiny, orange eye in the dim room.

"Shotgunning," he said, the word coming out soft, almost a whisper. He watched her face, looking for any flicker of reaction: curiosity, hesitation, anything. "Y'know. Where I... take a hit," he began, his voice low and a little rough, "and then I... breathe it into you. You up to it?"

Theo hadn’t meant to end up here. The plan had been to go home, maybe roll one, and pass out on his shitty couch to the comforting drone of a true crime documentary. But his feet, clad in worn-out Vans that had seen better days, had carried him on autopilot, following the familiar path through the damp, neon-glazed streets until he was standing outside his building. He’d been there for a solid five minutes, just leaning against the brick wall, watching the glow of a distant dispensary sign flicker on and off. His fingers twitched at his side, the ghost of a rolling paper between them.

Finally, he pushed off the wall and buzzed his apartment. When the door clicked open, he took the stairs two at a time, his heart beating a little faster than the effort warranted. He found his door slightly ajar and nudged it open with his shoulder.

The scent of his shampoo, maybe, or just the unique smell of his space, hit him first, a welcome change from the constant, faint aroma of weed and old paper that clung to his own clothes. He saw him then, and a slow, easy smile spread across his face, the kind that made the mole under his eye crinkle. "Whatssup...," he mumbled, his voice still a little rough from the joint he'd smoked on his lunch break. "Was just... in the neighborhood. Y'know?"

He didn't wait for an invitation, just shuffled in, toeing off his shoes by the door in a practiced motion. His gaze drifted around the room, not really looking at anything, just absorbing the vibe. It was calmer here. Quieter. He could feel the low-grade static in his own head beginning to settle.

"Armand let me dip early," he explained, meandering toward his kitchen. He opened the fridge, peering inside with the focused, hazy look of someone deciding their next move in a chess game. "Said the new shipment got delayed 'til tomorrow. Which is, like, cool for me, but also kinda sucks 'cause now I got nothin' to do." He pulled out a can of soda like he owned the house. He cracked it open with a sharp hiss and took a long sip, leaning back against the counter. His eyes, a warm, hazy blue beneath half-lidded lashes, finally settled on him properly. The red in his sclera was a permanent fixture, like a map of all the lazy nights and slow-burning thoughts. "What're you up to? Anythin' good?" He gestured vaguely with the can. "I got that new A$AP album on my phone. It's kinda weird, but, like, in a good way. You'd probably dig it."

He pushed off the counter and drifted toward the couch, collapsing onto it with a comfortable sigh. The old springs groaned in protest, a familiar sound. It was way nicer than his own. He set the can on a coaster: a small, conscious act of care, and fished in the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a small, tightly rolled joint and a lighter, holding them up like a peace offering.

"Was thinkin' we could just... chill," he said, his voice dropping into a softer, more intimate register. "Like, no big thing. Just... y'know." His fingers were already busy, his movements practiced and smooth as he brought the joint to his lips and lit it. The end glowed a warm orange, and he took a slow, deep hit, holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment before letting it curl out in a gentle cloud that carried his scent: weed, the faint, warm spice of his cologne, and the smell of light sweat from working.

He offered it to him, his eyes holding his through the hazy veil. The silence that followed wasn't the buzzing, anxious kind he sometimes felt in his own apartment. This was a comfortable, living silence, filled with the sound of distant traffic and the shared understanding that nothing needed to be said right now. He hummed a little, a tuneless snippet of a song he’d been playing in the store all day, his leg bouncing just slightly with a contained, happy energy.

This was it. This was the good part. The part between the shitty job and the lonely apartment, the part where the world softened at the edges and everything felt possible, or better yet, nothing felt necessary. He watched him, really watched him, taking in the small details of his face, the way the light hit him. He had a whole spiel ready about the album, about the weird customer who’d tried to buy a record with a handful of loose change, but it all seemed to dissolve in the quiet comfort of the room. The words weren't important. Just the proximity was.

"You look really good today," Theo mumbled between exhales of smoke, his eyes already glazing, an aroused smirk lingering on his lips. He took another hit, letting his head fall back as his eyes drifted to his body. "You know...there's something I always wanted to try."

He didn't elaborate right away, just let the statement hang in the hazy air between them, a secret wrapped in smoke. His gaze, heavy-lidded and intent, tracked from his eyes down to his lips and back again, a slow, deliberate journey. A faint flush was creeping up his neck, warming the skin under his messy dark hair.

He shifted on the couch, turning his body more fully towards him, the old springs complaining softly beneath his weight. He held the joint up, pinched carefully between his thumb and forefinger, its ember glowing like a tiny, orange eye in the dim room.

"Shotgunning," he said, the word coming out soft, almost a whisper. He watched his face, looking for any flicker of reaction: curiosity, hesitation, anything. "Y'know. Where I... take a hit," he began, his voice low and a little rough, "and then I... breathe it into you. You up to it?"