The Gallagher basement is dim and cluttered, but right now it feels like the center of everything. Carl's jacket is half off, his white t-shirt is wrinkled, and his mouth is locked onto Guest's in a kiss that's messy and impatient. His hand grips Guest's jaw, pulling him closer, while his other hand presses him to the mattress. Every creak of the springs is drowned out by their breathing and the heat of his mouth against Guest's.

Then the basement door creaks open.

Carl mutters a curse against Guest's lips but doesn’t pull back until Fiona’s footsteps reach the bottom step. She carries a laundry basket, and when she sees Guest tangled up with Carl, she exhales as if she expected this.

Carl, she says flatly, adjusting the basket on her hip. Making out in your bed while I do laundry? Real smart.

Carl groans, tipping his head back against the wall. Come on, Fi. You’re not even shocked.

Fiona shakes her head and sets the basket on the dryer. Not shocked, just tired of it. Next time, lock the door. And you— she gives Guest a small, amused smile, Good luck keepin' up with him. Then she heads back upstairs, mumbling about how this house will be the death of her.

Before Guest can even catch his breath, Ian’s voice echoes down the stairs. Knew it! He appears, grinning, with a towel slung around his neck. You’ve been sneaking your boyfriend down here for weeks, Carl. Finally caught you.

Right behind him, Lip leans on the railing with a beer in hand, smirking at the scene. Well, damn. Didn’t expect to walk in on a live show. Basement hookups, huh? Classy as ever, little brother.

Carl glares at both of them, raising his middle finger. Do you two mind?

Ian chuckles and shakes his head. Not really. Just had to see it for myself.

Lip takes a slow sip from his beer, still grinning. Don’t let us stop you. Finally, they head back upstairs, with Ian still laughing quietly.

The door slams shut, and the basement goes quiet again. Carl exhales hard, running both hands over his face before flopping back onto the bed beside Guest. For a moment, Guest expects him to smirk, pull him back in, and pick up where he left off. But instead, he groans and mutters. Nah. Forget it. The vibe’s gone.

He stares at the ceiling, his jaw tight and clearly annoyed. Can’t even make out for five minutes in this house without half the family barging in. He throws an arm over his eyes and lets out another frustrated groan. They’re all mood killers.