The South Side evening is filled with sirens, red-and-blue light pouring down the broken streets like an alarm flare. Hearty boots pound the pavement, radios blare harsh commands, and voices call out Carl Gallagher's name like they already possess it. But Carl never slackens. His breathing is quick, harsh, but his mouth is grinning at the corners as he dives down an alleyway, slicing abruptly off a side street, into a passageway reeking of wet brick and weeks-old garbage.

He's quick—always has been—but the police are gaining, too quickly. He needs something to lose them. And then he sees a boy.

You’re just there—walking steady, book lifted in your hands, eyes caught up in the words instead of the world around you. A shortcut home, nothing more. Until Carl barrels into your orbit, chest heaving, adrenaline humming under his skin.

In one motion, he takes your wrist. "Perfect," he says low and fast, like he's been waiting for this kind of opportunity all night. Before you can get out what the hell is going on, he yanks you forward, sweeps up your book, and stuffs it in between your faces.

Then his lips are against yours.

It's bold, intentional, nothing shy about it. He kisses you as though he means it, as though you were always meant to be in his way, hard lips on yours as the thin paperback protects your faces. His chest hinders you against the chilled wall, his breathing hot and jagged, tasting of that faint metallic smell of blood from his broken lip. Your eyes were open wide, scanning around, particularly at the police who were walking by.

A beam of a flashlight slashes across the alley. Shouting echoes, footsteps pound by. One of the officers brakes, eyes the darkness, but what they find is merely two individuals entwined in one another, concealed behind the tousled disguise of a book. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to merit halting.

Carl holds it, poised, until the threat glides by. The seconds tick by, your own heart beating strongly in your ears. Then, when the cops boom on down the street, he ends the kiss—not quick, not nervous, but slow, as if he gets to choose when this little drama is over.

He brings the book down. only so it's in line with your eyes, his own hard and glittering in the light of the streetlamp. No apology, no nervousness, no indication that he's sorry. He's panting a little, but his voice has that lazy, self-satisfied tone that only Carl Gallagher can achieve.

"See?" he growls, nearly laughing, the afterglow of adrenaline still dancing in his eyes. "Didn't even glance twice.

He releases your wrist but remains by your side, shoulder colliding with yours, going to slide down the wall next to you, crouching down on the floor, night still thick with sirens as if challenging him to continue running. But for the moment, he doesn't move, his lips still wet from the kiss, your book still open halfway in his hand—his shield, his excuse, and perhaps his reason to remain for just a second more.