8

I couldn't sleep.

And of course, my dad left a bottle of rum in the fridge like he didn't think I'd notice. Dumb move.

I'm curled up on the couch, reruns flickering across the screen, bottle in hand, when my phone buzzes.

Lip Gallagher: Happy birthday.

I glance at the date.6/13.Shit. I'm eighteen.

A lazy smile curls on my lips.Me: Thank you! You busy?Lip: No, why? Want me to come over?Me: No, let's meet at that parking lot. I'll bring booze.Lip: See ya soon.

I shove bottles into my backpack—whatever was still half-full in the kitchen. Vodka. Two beers. That weird cinnamon whiskey from Halloween. It clinks with every step as I head down the street.

It's quiet out. Just me, streetlights, and the occasional shadow moving behind a curtain. When I round the corner, I spot him already waiting—perched on the same curb as always, cigarette glowing like a firefly.

"Gallagher!" I call.

He jumps, whips his head toward me.

I giggle. "You scare easy."

He smirks and walks over. "Gimme that," he says, grabbing the backpack off my shoulder.

"You look like hell," I say, squinting at him under the orange streetlight.

"Just my mom pulling her usual shit," he mutters. "Tried to take Liam again."

I blink. "You want me to fight her? I will."

"I'd pay to see that," he chuckles, already cracking open a beer. "You drinking already?"

"Little bit," I say, swiping the vodka from the bag. I don't even hesitate—take a long swig that burns the whole way down.

Lip watches me, scoots a little closer. "You ever slow down?"

"Only when I want to remember something."

"Yeah?" He lights another cigarette, eyes flicking over me. "You planning to remember tonight?"

I grin. "Guess we'll see."

We drink. Talk. It's easy, until his phone buzzes.

He pulls it out without thinking.

Karen Jackson: U up?

I don't say anything. But I see it. He sees that I saw it.

He locks the screen and shoves it back in his pocket.

"Not what you think," he says.

"It's fine," I lie.

There's a beat of silence. Then he leans in—slow this time—and kisses me.

It's careful for about three seconds, then everything explodes.

His hand tangles in my hair, mine tug at the hem of his hoodie. His teeth scrape my bottom lip, and I gasp, grabbing his jacket, pulling him closer.

We're breathless, clumsy, but hungry—like we've both been waiting for the green light. And it's here. Full-speed.

⸻

Later — My Bedroom

We crash through the door. My room's dark except for the streetlight bleeding through the window. The second it closes behind us, he's on me again—his hands hot on my waist, mouth on my neck, rough and desperate.

He kisses me like he's mad at me. And maybe he is. Maybe I am too.

I tug his hoodie up and over his head. His mouth is back on mine before it hits the floor. I fumble with his belt, and he laughs against my lips. "Eager?"

"You're slow," I whisper.

He growls a little under his breath and lifts me—actually lifts me—and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me to the bed.

We land hard, and I giggle again—half-drunk, half-alive, every nerve buzzing.

His hands slide up my thighs, under my shirt. "Take this off," he murmurs, voice low and thick.

I do. Toss it to the floor. His hands are all over me now—palming, gripping, learning me like a puzzle he's about to destroy. My head falls back when his mouth finds the spot just under my collarbone.

"You always taste like fucking sugar," he mutters against my skin.

"You always talk too much," I whisper, pushing his jeans down.

He smirks. "You're bossy when you're turned on."

"Shut up, Lip."

He does. Finally.

⸻

His fingers trail down my stomach, teasing, circling just above my waistband. I shiver and arch into him, silently begging. And then they slip lower—slow, deliberate. His mouth's back on mine as his fingers work me open, and my back lifts off the bed.

He groans against my skin. "You're so wet already."

"Birthday privilege," I breathe, gripping the sheets.

He kisses his way down my chest, mouth warm and filthy against my skin, until I'm gasping, panting, legs shaking around his shoulders. And when I think I can't take any more, he climbs back up and kisses me again—his tongue slick with me, his body pressing hard between my thighs.

He looks down at me, breath uneven. "Tell me to stop now if you want me to."

I shake my head. "I want you to."

That's all it takes. He pushes in slow, deep, stretching me until I bite my lip and clutch his arms. His eyes flutter shut, and a groan escapes his throat.

"Fuck," he whispers.

He starts to move—slow at first, then harder, deeper. Every thrust makes the bed creak, my name slipping from his lips in a voice I've never heard him use before.

I claw at his back, wrap my legs tighter around him. "Don't stop," I breathe.

His mouth finds mine again, and we lose ourselves—sweat and moans and whispered cursing and need.

⸻

After

We're tangled under my sheets, skin sticking, breaths slowing. He's on his back, staring at the ceiling. I'm curled into his side, still pulsing from the aftershocks.

He doesn't say anything. Neither do I.

His phone buzzes again. He doesn't look at it this time.

"Who was it?" I ask, voice hoarse.

"No one that matters," he says quietly.

I don't push.

His hand slides up my back, fingers drawing lazy circles between my shoulder blades. "You gonna regret this?"

I shake my head. "You?"

"No."

Silence again.

"I didn't want to spend my birthday with anyone else," I say before I can stop myself.

He looks at me. Not smiling, not smirking—just looks. And then nods once.

"Happy birthday," he says softly, and kisses my forehead.

I'm notoriously a heavy sleeper. But this morning, I wasn't.

"Erin... whose butt is that?"

Conner's voice hits me before my eyes even open. I groan, roll to one side, and there he is—standing in the doorway in his Spider-Man pajama pants, blinking at the bed with the seriousness of a crime scene investigator.

"Is that Lip?" he asks, his face scrunched like he's trying to solve a math problem.

"Why is he in your bed?" Lucas pipes up behind him, rubbing sleep from his eyes, one sock on and the other missing.

"Are you guys naked?" Conner squints. "I think I can see—"

"Holy shit, get out!" I yell, yanking the blanket up over Lip. He's knocked out, dead to the world, his bare back exposed to two very judgmental siblings.

Lucas steps further into the room. "Is this what grown-ups do? Sleep naked together on birthdays?"

"I swear to God, Conner, turn around," I say, sitting up and trying to shield Lip's unconscious body like I'm guarding a crime scene.

Conner's eyes light up. "Oh my God, you did it! I knew it! You were acting weird last night and—"

"OUT!" I yell again, louder this time. "Before I lock you in the closet with nothing but raisins and shampoo bottles."

Conner gasps. "You said you'd never do that again."

"I lied!"

They scurry off, giggling all the way down the hall. I hear Lucas whisper, "I bet Lip farts in his sleep."

Now that wakes him up.

Lip groans, rolling onto his back and blinking at the ceiling. "What the hell just happened?"

"You got caught. By the nosy patrol. While completely exposed."

He rubs his eyes. "Can't believe I just got shamed by a five-year-old."

"Yeah, well, he's already telling people you 'did it.' You might be a legend by lunchtime."

Lip stretches, then winces. "I have never regretted a hangover more."

Then—

"ERIN!"

My dad's voice slices through the floorboards like a foghorn.

"Oh fuck me," I mutter.

"Already did, thanks," Lip mumbles with a grin, eyes still closed.

I chuck a pillow at his face. "You're the worst."

⸻

By the time we emerge from my room—fully clothed, semi-human—we're greeted by the exact scene I feared.

Lucas and Conner are posted on the couch with cereal bowls and matching smirks. My dad's leaning against the counter with his usual morning coffee, pretending not to be entertained.

"Morning," he says, eyes flicking to Lip.

"Hey," Lip mutters, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket like he's waiting for a court summons.

"Happy birthday, kiddo." My dad steps forward and ruffles my hair like I'm still five. "You got plans?"

"Not really," I say, pouring two cups of coffee. "We were just gonna grab breakfast and hang around."

"Sounds like a good start." He hands me a crumpled fifty. "Here. Go be eighteen and irresponsible."

I raise an eyebrow. "Thanks?"

"Oh, and I heard back from the realtor. My place should close in two weeks," he says. "Got that new spot on South Homan lined up."

Lip, mid-sip, pauses. "That's... my street."

My dad shrugs. "What can I say? I've got great taste."

"You're gonna be neighbors?" Lucas says from the couch, voice full of horror and delight.

"Does that mean Lip's gonna be here all the time?" Conner asks.

I ignore them. "We'll be back later."

"Hopefully not pregnant," Conner mutters under his breath as I drag Lip out the door.

⸻

A Little While Later...

We don't really have a plan. We walk. We drink terrible gas station coffee and eat pre-wrapped muffins that taste like dust and sugar. Lip makes fun of mine until I throw a piece of it at him.

Eventually, we end up outside the Gallagher house.

"You wanna go in?" he asks.

"Sure, why not?"

The second the door opens, I'm hit with the comforting scent of... socks, beer, and mystery meat. Classic.

Debbie's not home. Fiona must be at work. Carl's probably committing a misdemeanor. And Frank—

"Lip, my boy!" Frank bellows from the couch, startling me. He's wearing an inside-out shirt and boxer shorts with flamingos on them, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand.

"And look what the alley cat dragged in." His eyes land on me. "Hello, Erin. Lovely as ever."

I nod slowly. "Frank."

"I always knew you two would end up tangled together like a pair of drunk earbuds."

"Please stop talking," Lip mutters.

Frank points the bottle at us. "You know, back in my day, we didn't date. We conquered. Had to fight off three Irish girls and a ferret to win Monica over."

"Can't believe you're still alive," I say.

"Neither can I!" Frank grins proudly.

Lip drops down onto the couch next to me, resting his head back. "Ignore him. He feeds on attention."

Frank raises a hand. "I do! It's my second favorite fuel, right after gin."

I glance at Lip. "You owe me for this."

"You're the one who wanted to come in," he says, grabbing the remote and flipping past a channel that was playing a commercial for adult diapers.

Frank leans forward. "So, any chance of a grandchild in the near future?"

Lip throws a sock at him. "Go to hell."

"Already booked a room there," Frank says, feet up, smiling like the world's worst mascot.

⸻

Later, upstairs...

Lip flops on his bed. I sit at the edge, slipping off my shoes.

"You're quiet," I say.

He shrugs. "Long night. We were at least... what, seven shots in before you decided I looked good?"

I roll my eyes. "You looked good at five. You just got funnier after seven."

He smirks and stretches, arm brushing mine.

There's a pause. Not serious. Just comfortable.

"You know," he says, eyes half-lidded, "you didn't have to share the blanket this morning."

"You snore."

"You drool."

"I do not!"

"You do. It was cute."

I chuck a pillow at his chest. He grabs it, pulls me down beside him without thinking, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And it kind of is.

We lie there, tangled up in the smell of each other's shampoo and bad decisions. Somewhere downstairs, Frank starts singing. It's off-key and probably offensive.

But Lip's hand finds mine in the quiet. And I don't pull away.