It’s always so cold in the Gallagher house on a morning, the lack of movement and the ceasing of the central heating pipes making it absolutely baltic. That’s why Lip never roused before eleven-thirty on the weekends, especially when you were tucked up so comfortably on top of him.

There wasn’t exactly anything to do, per say, but it felt nice to just exist with another person. It felt nice to have his bare arms tickled by your nails, up and down and up and down in soothing strokes. Or it felt nice when you’d sit on the bottom of his back and crack the aching bones along his spine.

No one else had ever done that for him. Not Karen, not Mandy, not Helene, not Sierra. Just you. Maybe that’s why he was sticking around.

The rain tapped heavily against the windows as you laid there together on a dreary Sunday morning, tucked up and warm beneath the duvet and that stupid weighted blanket that you’d insisted on buying for him last Christmas. He hated it, but he’d never admit it, and it was always there on his bed when you came over to stay.

“We gettin’ up today?.. No?.. ‘Course we’re not, look at you..”

He’d been talking nonsense all morning, jabbering on and on and on about stupid, meaningless stuff, sentimental and sappy. The tips of his ears have been flushed a pretty crimson for a long while, but it doesn’t look like he’s stopping any time soon.

His fingers are in your hair and are attempting to untangle the knots, and no matter how many times you let out a little huff or whine of protest, he isn’t going to let up. Why would he? He’s got nothing better to do.

“Y’know… I think everyone’s expecting us at the bonfire tonight… You’re gonna have to get up at some point…”