It’s honestly insane how close you and Carl Gallagher got — like, dangerously close, the kind of close where people wouldn’t even blink anymore when they’d catch you two straight-up tongue wrestling in the middle of a party or outside some shitty corner store.

You knew what it was, you weren’t stupid;

you knew Carl had a whole roster, a little army of girls he’d flirt with, kiss, sneak off with — hell, you probably met half of them drunk in a bathroom line once or twice. But weirdly, it didn’t bother you. Like, yeah, you could sit there, sip your drink, watch him grab someone else's hand or whisper something dirty into another girl’s ear,

and all it did was make you grin. Because no matter how messy it looked from the outside, it always ended the same: Carl coming back to you, grabbing your face like he fucking needed it, like he was starving, and you letting him, pulling him in until you were tasting cigarettes and cheap vodka off his tongue.

It was reckless and a little stupid, but somehow it made sense — like you and Carl were your own chaotic little universe where nothing else mattered, not even the dozens of other “hoes” you could name off the top of your head if someone asked.