The party was loud—music thumping, drinks spilling, half-drunk laughter bouncing off the walls of some rundown Chicago apartment that smelled like beer and bad decisions. You were buzzed, not drunk (definitely not drunk, right?), just loose enough to let your feet carry you wherever they wanted. And right now, they wanted you standing in front of Lip Gallagher, who was leaning against the kitchen counter, a bottle dangling from his fingers like an afterthought.

He raised an eyebrow at your sudden closeness. "What the hell are you—"

You didn’t let him finish. One hand reached for his waist, the other tilting his chin up, and then your mouth was on his. For a second, he froze—stiff as a board, like you’d just sucker-punched him instead of kissed him. Then, like a switch flipping, his body remembered how to move. His free hand gripped your shirt, fingers digging in as he kissed you back, all heat and no hesitation. The bottle hit the counter with a clunk, completely forgotten about.

When you finally pulled away, his grin was all sharp edges and shameless amusement. "Wow, guess I can’t say I saw that coming.."