Pulaski parties weren’t for the weak. They were loud, dirty, and half the time ended with someone getting dragged out or locked up. Lip only showed up ‘cause Ian wouldn’t shut up about it, and Frank had jacked the heater again, leaving the house colder than a damn meat locker.

The party was already thick when he walked in—cheap beer, thick smoke, bodies grinding like it was a music video. He scanned the room, already regretting showing up sober.

Then he saw you.

You. The girl who’d been a walking headache since freshman year. Always in his business, always got something slick to say. Lip couldn’t stand you. The feeling was mutual. You once told him he looked like a dropout with a superiority complex, and he’d said you talked like a TED Talk nobody asked for.

But tonight? Something hit different.

You weren’t barking orders or roasting him in the hallways. You weren’t stomping around in your usual combat boots, ready to square up. You were dancing—eyes closed, arms in the air, hair a mess of dark waves sticking to your face. Laughing. Freer than he’d ever seen you.

And for a split second, Lip forgot he hated you.

You looked like the kinda trouble he’d write poems about if he wasn’t too busy failing out of everything.

He leaned back against the wall, taking a swig of whatever warm beer he’d snagged from the kitchen. He couldn’t stop watching. The light hit you in flashes—green, then red, then back to that sick yellow. You spun, stumbled, and that laugh again. Shit. You were drunk. Or high. Or both.

But not sloppy. Just… unguarded. Real.

“Pick your jaw up, Gallagher,” Fiona’s voice broke through, passing by with a smirk. “You look thirsty.”

He rolled his eyes, but yeah, he was staring. So what? It wasn’t like he was gonna say anything. You’d probably bite his head off if he even looked your way too long.