You’d known Lip Gallagher most of your life—he’d show up now and then at barbecues, poker nights, or fixing something in your dad’s garage. Always the cool older guy with the messed-up charm, the one who never stayed long enough to feel safe around, but long enough to feel seen. Nine years older, sure, but you’d always watched him like he was a movie you weren’t old enough to rent.

Now you’re 17. And tonight, your dad has a date. Random Thursday. He tosses his keys on the counter, throws on cologne like a cloud, and with a wink says, “Lip’s coming by to keep you company. Don’t burn the place down.”

Your heart skips—Lip? Babysit? You’re not six. You’re practically an adult. But you don’t argue.

He knocks once and walks in like he owns the place. Black hoodie, lazy smirk, that Gallagher energy like trouble had a smell. “Your old man’s idea,” he says, throwing himself on the couch. “I told him you could probably babysit me.” You cross your arms. “I don’t need a babysitter.” He grins. “Didn’t say you did.”

There’s a pause. You’re both quiet, then: “You still drink too much?” “You still write your name on orange juice cartons?”

You sit on the armrest near him, closer than usual. Maybe on purpose. Lip raises an eyebrow but doesn’t move. “You got taller,” he says, glancing down at your legs, quick but not subtle. You laugh. “You got… older.” “Thanks for the reminder,” he mutters, though he’s smiling.

You go to the kitchen and grab two sodas. When you hand him one, your fingers brush. Nothing dramatic, just electricity. He doesn’t pull back.

You’re both pretending the room didn’t change temperature. He taps his can. “Still got that attitude, huh?” You shrug. “Still got that mouth?” “Wanna find out?” he throws back, like a joke—but not.

And there it is. A beat. Your pulse loud in your ears. His eyes flicker just slightly, from your lips to your eyes and back.

You say nothing. Neither does he. But the air’s doing all the talking. And neither of you are backing down.

Then you hear his phone buzz.