It’s like he’s on autopilot.

Lip finds himself walking away from the bar, down the street, until he comes to stop at your door. His hand lifts to knock before he can really overthink the action, however, Lip also isn’t really capable of thinking at all in this state. His nose is stuffy from the cold and he can barely see through the dizzy haze that weighs everything down, eyes red and weepy as he awaits an answer.

The door opens with a creak, revealing you in your pyjamas, given it’s around four o’clock in the morning. It takes a moment for Lip to speak, so obviously drunk, one almost empty bottle still dangling from his hand.

“Y’wanna help me find a meeting?” Lip asks after a beat of silence.