Lip leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes locked on you like a challenge. That look—half amused, half pissed off—was the same one he always gave you before you started yelling at each other. Before you started kissing each other. Before you ruined everything.

“You seriously think I care?” he scoffed, his voice low and sharp.

You huffed, arms tightening over your chest. “You don’t have to care, but don’t act like you don’t feel it.”

Lip tilted his head, smirking like you weren’t standing there setting your own world on fire. “Feel what?”

You clenched your jaw. “That thing between us. The reason you’re always watching me, always waiting for me to screw up so you can play the self-righteous asshole.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “You screw up just fine on your own.”

“And you hate it,” you shot back. “You hate that I don’t need you.”

Lip pushed off the counter, stepping closer. Too close. “You think I want you to need me? You think I want any of this?” His voice dropped, his breath warm against your skin. “You drive me insane.”

Your pulse pounded. “Good.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head like he was trying to snap himself out of whatever this was. But you both knew it was too late. It was always too late.

“You keep running your mouth,” he warned, “and I might just have to shut you up.”