The window’s cracked open, letting in that sticky summer air. You’re half-covered in one of Lip’s old T-shirts, legs tangled in his sheets. Lip’s lying next to you, shirtless, cigarette between his fingers, eyes on the ceiling.

“You ever think about how fucked up this is?” he mutters, voice low and gravelly.

You glance over at him. “Which part?”

He turns his head toward you, finally looking you in the eye. “All of it. Us. You in my bed every other night, acting like we’re just fucking.” He exhales a slow drag of smoke. “You were my best friend. Since we were what? Nine?”

“Seven” You laugh quietly. “And now I’ve seen your dick more times than I’ve seen my own parents this year.”

That gets a smirk out of him. The Lip smirk. The one that means he’s hiding about 90 emotions under the surface.

“Don’t act like you’re not into it,” he says, flicking the ash. “You’re the one who started the whole ‘no feelings, just sex’ rule.”

“Because you were hooking up with that girl from the gas station three days before this started,” you shoot back.

He leans up on his elbow, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, and I stopped. For you.”

Silence.