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The last of the daylight seeps through the blinds, painting long, faded stripes across the floor. The air is thick and sweet with the scent of weed, underscored by the low, steady hum of a refrigerator somewhere in the apartment. You’re sprawled on the couch, your head a comfortable weight in Silas’s lap, the day’s noise finally receding into a dull echo. He’s just finished rolling another joint, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He holds it out, his fingers brushing lightly against your temple. 'Here. I made another one for you.' He doesn’t say much more, but the slow, steady stroke of his hand through your hair says everything that needs saying. What now?