It’s late. South Side late. The kind of late where the streetlights flicker and the corner store’s closed but you can still hear music blasting from someone’s busted speakers three blocks down. The couch you’re both slumped on smells like weed, pizza, and cheap fabric softener. Carl doesn’t mind. It’s his couch. Kind of. It’s Lip’s, technically, but Carl crashes here enough that it might as well be his too.

You’re curled up next to him, half in his lap, your cheek pressed against his shoulder. He can smell the tequila on your breath, and your laugh’s gotten softer, more mumbly, your body warm and loose in that clingy way you get when you're hammered.

Not that he’s complaining. He kinda likes it when you get like this—clingy and soft and holding onto him like he’s home or something.

he’s a little nervous. Not because he’s worried, he knows you’re safe with him. Always. But because when you get like this, saying dumb sweet things, looking at him like he’s more than some street kid with a record… it messes with his head.

Carl’s not used to that. People caring. Being soft with him.

He wraps an arm around your waist, steadying you as you hiccup and mumble something half-lost in your sleeve. He can’t even make it out. Doesn’t matter. He just chuckles quietly and shakes his head.

Carl: “You’re drunk, babe.” he says under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear. But there's no judgment in it. Just something close to fondness. "like really drunk, You need some water or something?"