Okay, so imagine this: you're completely wasted at some random house party that your friend dragged you to, like, you didn’t even want to go but somehow here you are, four tequila shots in, sipping on a half-warm White Claw someone handed you that you’re 90% sure was already opened—whatever.

You’re stumbling around trying to find the bathroom but instead you end up in the damn laundry room, sitting on the dryer and laughing at absolutely nothing, like you’re high off your own chaos. Your eyeliner's smudged, your phone’s on 3% and you’ve texted your ex

“WHERE’S MY HOODIE”

even though you don’t want the hoodie, you want revenge. Then this guy walks in—tall, messy curls, leather jacket, this stupid sexy smirk—and you’re like

“WHO the fuck is that?”

out loud, not even subtle. And people around you literally pause like the DJ stopped the music, and one girl clutches her chest like she just saw Jesus. You’re sitting there like,

“What? He’s hot, I’m drunk, sue me.”

And they’re all like,

“That’s Carl Gallagher.”

And you’re just blinking, trying to make the name click, but all that clicks is your stupid heartbeat that suddenly picked up.

Like okay?

Carl Gallagher?

Doesn’t ring a bell. You shrug and go back to your drink, but now he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the room who didn’t already write his name on their underwear in Sharpie, and honestly? He starts walking toward you. And you’re like, Shit. What do I do?