4

"Hey, wanna come over to my house for dinner? I think Fi made lasagna," Lip says as he drops onto the bed beside me, his hand casually brushing mine.

"Yeah, sure. I'll never complain about not having to cook dinner," I say, scooting a little closer to him. "And I'm sure Conner and Lucas'll want to play with Debbie and Carl. They've been talking about setting up some kind of obstacle course in the backyard."

Lip groans, grinning. "God help us all. They're gonna end up building a booby trap and forget where they put it."

"Honestly? Wouldn't be the first time."

We laugh, and he leans in to kiss my cheek without even thinking about it, then stands up and offers me his hand.

"Come on, before Fi eats all the lasagna 'by accident' again."

"She did not eat it by accident," I say as he pulls me to my feet. "She hoarded the whole tray in her room and said it was 'for meal prep.'"

We walk next door, the path between our houses so familiar now it's barely even worth putting on shoes. Conner and Lucas trail behind us, arguing about whether Carl or Debbie is cooler—Lucas is firmly Team Debbie, while Conner insists Carl's 'better at hiding fireworks.'

The Gallagher front door is already halfway open, music thumping faintly from upstairs. Inside, Fiona's in the kitchen, apron on, pulling a giant bubbling tray of lasagna out of the oven.

"Perfect timing," she calls over her shoulder. "This thing's too heavy for me to carry and threaten people with."

"I'll take it," Lip says, sliding past me and grabbing a towel.

The second we walk into the living room, Lip drops onto the couch and tugs me down with him, guiding me right into his lap like it's the most natural thing in the world. His arms wrap around my waist, and I let myself lean back into him, warm and relaxed.

Carl walks in, stops dead, and immediately groans. "Are you serious right now?"

"What?" Lip says, not even trying to pretend he's innocent.

"You guys are, like, on each other," Carl complains. "On the couch. Where people sit."

"Your feet were on the dining table this morning," Fiona calls from the kitchen. "Pick your battles."

Debbie peeks around the corner, her eyes immediately narrowing. "Are you two dating again?"

"No," I say quickly.

"Nope," Lip echoes, way too fast.

Lucas, never one to miss an opportunity, runs in from the hallway and points at us like he's caught a crime. "They were kissing this morning in the kitchen! I saw them! It was gross."

Conner adds, "And last night they fell asleep on the couch together watching Shrek 2."

"That's a classic," Lip defends.

"We're not dating," I say again, even though I'm still fully on his lap and his hand is currently resting on my thigh.

Kev and V walk in from the back door carrying a six-pack. Kev looks at us, eyebrows raised. "You sure? 'Cause this looks a lot like dating."

"It's not," Lip says.

"Definitely not," I say at the same time, but neither of us makes a move to shift apart.

V just smirks and plops onto the recliner. "Okay, sure. Not dating. Just cuddling, kissing, sleeping together, and finishing each other's sentences."

Debbie nods dramatically. "Sounds like a textbook relationship to me."

"Are we eating or what?" Lip mutters, clearly trying to change the subject.

"Fiona's cutting it now," Carl says. "But I'm not sitting next to the lovebirds."

"I will," Conner grins, already dragging Lucas to the table. "I wanna hear them fight over who gets the last piece."

"We're not gonna fight," I say.

Lip smirks. "Unless you try to take it from me."

"Oh, it's on," I say, playfully narrowing my eyes at him.

As we all shuffle into the dining room, the teasing dies down but the smirking doesn't. Lip slides into the chair next to me, our knees bumping under the table, and despite all the chaos around us—yelling, laughing, lasagna being flung onto plates like it's a sport—he sneaks his hand into mine under the table and squeezes.

We're definitely not dating.

Right.

Totally believable.Dinner was winding down, which in Gallagher terms meant everyone was still yelling, someone was flicking peas across the table, and Fiona looked like she was ready to throw the lasagna tray at the next person who asked for seconds.

Carl was chasing Conner and Lucas around the living room with a broom when the boys suddenly skidded to a stop in front of me, panting and red-faced.

"Can we stay the night?" Conner blurted. "Please? Carl said we could turn the living room into a fort."

"Yeah!" Lucas added. "Debbie said we could help her bake cookies too!"

Debbie walked past carrying three forks in one hand. "That's a lie. I said they could watch me bake cookies."

"I'll do the dishes!" Conner added quickly, hopeful and bouncing on his toes.

I looked between the two of them—Lucas clinging to my hand, Conner with the wide eyes—and sighed. "Only if you promise not to break anything or set anything on fire."

"We won't!" they shouted, then took off back down the hall with Carl yelling something about finding duct tape.

Lip leaned in behind me, his voice low near my ear. "So... does this mean you're free?"

I turned slightly, smirking. "Looks like it."

"Wanna sneak out of here before they rope us into 'fort building supervision'?"

I nodded. "God, yes."

⸻

Back at my house, it was quiet in that perfect kind of way—still, a little cool from the evening air, the kind of quiet that only happens when no one's waiting for anything.

Lip dropped his hoodie on the back of the chair and kicked his boots off by the door like he lived here. I locked the door behind us and leaned against it for a second, watching him move through the kitchen, open the fridge, and close it again without taking anything.

"We have juice," I offered.

He shrugged. "I'm good."

And I knew what he meant. Not just about the juice. He looked good, too—clear-eyed, steady. I could tell the difference now. The way he held himself. The way he was present.

He walked over and stood in front of me. His hands came to rest on either side of my waist. No rush. No push.

"I like it better here when it's just us," he said.

I smiled and ran my hands up his chest. "Me too."

He leaned in, kissed me softly at first—lips brushing mine like he was asking permission, even though he already knew the answer. I kissed him back, slow and sure, my fingers tangling in the hem of his shirt, lifting it inch by inch.

When I tugged it over his head and tossed it aside, he chuckled against my mouth. "You're getting bold."

"You complaining?"

"Not even a little."

I backed toward the couch, pulling him with me, and we collapsed together into the cushions. His weight pressed against me in all the right ways—solid, warm, familiar. His hands moved slow, not like he was trying to impress me, but like he knew exactly where I wanted him. His mouth followed the line of my jaw, then down to my neck, leaving a trail of heat that made my whole body hum.

"You always this quiet?" he murmured, pulling my shirt up and over my head.

"Only when I'm trying not to lose it," I whispered, breath catching.

He grinned, hands slipping beneath my waistband, dragging my jeans down, his fingers grazing along my thighs with just enough pressure to make me squirm.

"Fuck, Erin," he muttered, voice rough now. "You look so good."

He kissed down my stomach, pausing every so often to look up at me with that smug, knowing look—like he loved knowing exactly what he was doing to me. His fingers found that perfect rhythm, slow but firm, keeping his eyes on me the whole time. No teasing. Just focused.

My back arched. His name fell out of my mouth in a half-breath, half-gasp, and that only seemed to push him further. When I finally fell apart under his hands, it wasn't loud. It was all in the way I held onto him, fingers digging into his shoulders, the way I whispered his name like it meant something.

And it did.

He kissed me again as I caught my breath, one hand brushing hair off my face, and the other never leaving my skin.

"Your turn," I murmured, reaching for his belt.

He helped me undress him without saying much, just watching me like he was memorizing the way I looked at him. When he finally slid into me, slow and deep, it was like coming home. My hands gripped his back, his breath caught in my ear, and for a second, we just stayed like that—connected, still.

Then he moved.

His pace was steady, every thrust grounding and deliberate. He wasn't trying to prove anything. He was there—watching me, holding onto me, his mouth on mine every few seconds like he couldn't get enough.

"You feel—fuck, Erin..." he groaned, head dropping to my shoulder.

I wrapped my legs around him tighter, pulling him closer.

"Don't stop," I whispered.

He didn't. He stayed with me the whole way, his rhythm matching mine, building and building until everything broke open again. He cursed low under his breath, coming undone against my neck, both of us a tangled, sweaty mess on the couch, gasping and breathless and quiet.

We lay there after, tangled up, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my side. The silence wasn't awkward—it was peaceful. Like the storm had passed and we were still here, still us.

Eventually, he said, "So... still not dating?"

I smirked against his chest. "Not even a little."

"Right," he said. "Just, y'know, completely obsessed with each other."

"Exactly."