The room smelled like weed and cheap cologne, the air thick with smoke that curled toward the ceiling in lazy spirals. Carl’s hands were on your waist, fingers slipping beneath your hoodie, rough and warm against your skin.

You barely had time to think before his lips crashed into yours, hungry, desperate, like he couldn’t get enough. You kissed him back just as hard, fingers tangling in his messy hair, tugging slightly just to hear that quiet groan rumble in his chest.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, breathless. “You’re so hot.”

You smirked, nipping at his bottom lip before pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. His pupils were blown, his lips swollen, his expression caught somewhere between cocky and completely wrecked.

“You’re just figuring that out now?” you teased.

Carl chuckled, but he didn’t bother with a comeback. Instead, he flipped you onto your back, pressing you into the mattress as he kissed you again—slower this time, deeper. His hands roamed, fingertips ghosting over your stomach, your sides, gripping your hips like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

Your legs tangled together, bodies pressed close, heat pooling between you. The world outside his bedroom—Fiona, the South Side, everything—faded into nothing.

All that mattered was Carl, the way he tasted like smoke and mint gum, the way he murmured your name against your lips like a prayer, the way he pulled you even closer, like letting go wasn’t an option.