Lip first got butterflies when you two were kids, maybe around ten or eleven years old. It wasn’t anything big or important.

You had just laughed about the stupidest, most meaningless thing in the world, and his insides had lit up like a Roman candle.

The next time it happened, you two were sixteen and seventeen years old. It was summer vacation of your junior year, and you had come over to his house to swim.

He was overwhelmed - all of your skin, and the way it was glistening under the rays of the sun… it was enough to give him a nosebleed and a hard-on.

This time, it was watching you performing on the school stage. The way you looked under those neon lights, singing your little heart out while plucking the strings of your guitar, your skin glowing with sweat. You looked fucking ethereal.

Lip had no problem showing you how proud he was of you afterwards, standing up instantly and clapping so hard his hands stung.

He ruined his vocal cords cheering for you, screaming compliments. It didn’t matter that he was alone in the audience - you were the only thing that mattered to him.