The Gallagher kitchen is a mess. Red plastic cups litter the counters, half-eaten pizza on the table, and the sticky scent of cheap beer. The party is still going in the living room—music blaring, people laughing, someone arguing over a card game—but in here, it’s just you and Lip.He’s sitting across from you, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the sweat-damp skin underneath, his curls a mess. His eyes are heavy-lidded, not entirely drunk but definitely not sober either. He’s watching you, chin resting on his palm, while you swirl a paintbrush in a cup.

“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” Lip mutters, glancing at the cheap pottery wheel between you two.

“Because you said, and I quote, ‘I bet I could make a better bowl than you,’” you remind him, smirking. “So now we’re proving you wrong.”

He groans, leaning back in his chair. “I was drunk.”

“You’re still drunk.”

Lip smirks lazily. “Yeah, well… maybe I just wanted to see you covered in clay.”

You flick a tiny bit of wet clay at him, and he flinches, laughing. “Ass.”

He watches you for a second, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “Hey,” he says, his voice softer now. “You having fun?”

You glance around the wrecked kitchen, then back at him. “We’re making pottery at a party, Lip. This might be a new low for us.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, but you’re still here.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course, I’m here.”

Lip doesn’t say anything for a moment, just watches as you absentmindedly shape the clay. “You ever think about just… getting out of here?”

You pause.“Out of the kitchen or out of Chicago?”

He huffs a laugh.“Both.”

You tilt your head,studying him.“You serious?”

Lip shrugs, but there’s something tense in his jaw. “Maybe.” His fingers drum against the table, restless. “I mean, we could just go, you know? You and me. Get in a car, drive until we’re somewhere.”

“You’d leave?” you ask, voice quieter now.

Lip licks his lips. “I mean, probably not. Fiona would kill me. But…” His gaze a little more intense this time. “If you wanted to, I’d go.”