The hallway smells like bleach and wet coats. Lockers slam, voices overlap, and someone shoulders past you hard enough that your books tilt in your arms.

“Watch it,” a guy says, grinning like it’s your fault.

You keep walking. That’s the rule you’ve made for yourself—don’t react, don’t escalate. But they’ve been circling for weeks now. Snide comments in class. A chair kicked out from under you yesterday. Today it’s louder.

“Hey,” another voice calls. “Didn’t know charity let anyone in this school.”

Laughter. Sharp, practiced. You feel heat crawl up your neck. Someone flicks the back of your ear. Just enough to humiliate, not enough to get caught.

You stop.

Bad move.

A hand grabs your backpack strap and yanks you backward. Your books scatter across the floor like you dropped a deck of cards. The bell rings, shrill and unforgiving, and everyone suddenly has somewhere else to be—except the three guys standing over you.

“Pick it up,” one of them says. “C’mon. That’s what you’re good at, right?”

You kneel because you don’t want it to get worse. Because teachers never see the first shove, only the reaction. Your fingers shake as you reach for your notebook.

“Aw,” another one says. “Look at that. Real obedient.”

That’s when Lip Gallagher walks around the corner.

He’s got a cigarette tucked behind his ear like he forgot it was there, knuckles scraped raw, hoodie half-zipped. He takes in the scene in about half a second—the guys, your books, the way your shoulders are hunched like you’re bracing for impact.

“What the hell’s this?” Lip says.

One of the guys laughs. “Relax, man. Just messing around.”

Lip’s eyes flick to you. Not soft. Focused. Calculating. Then back to them.

“Funny,” he says. “Didn’t hear the punchline.”

The guy holding your backpack strap shrugs. “You their boyfriend or something?”

That’s it.

Lip doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t threaten. He just steps forward and slams the guy into the lockers so hard the metal rattles down the hall. The cigarette falls from behind his ear and skitters across the floor.

“Don’t,” Lip says quietly, forearm pressed into the guy’s throat, “touch people who didn’t ask for your attention.”

The other two freeze. One backs up. The smarter one runs.

“Lip—” you start, because your heart is in your throat and this is already spiraling.

Too late.

The guy coughs and swings wildly. Lip takes the hit on his shoulder, grunts, and responds with a punch that drops him. It’s ugly and fast and reckless, exactly like everything else Lip does. There’s a crack—knuckles on jaw, maybe locker on skull—and the guy crumples, swearing.

A teacher’s voice echoes from the far end of the hall.

Lip steps back, breathing hard. He looks at his hand like he’s deciding whether it’s broken. Then he looks at you.

“You okay?” he asks, like this is the only thing that matters.

You nod, because you don’t trust your voice.

“Good,” he says. “Grab your stuff.”

You scramble to collect your books. Lip nudges his cigarette with his shoe, sighs, and leaves it there.

The teacher rounds the corner just in time to see the guy on the floor and Lip standing over him.

“What happened?” she demands.

Lip doesn’t hesitate. “He tripped.”

The guy starts protesting. Lip cuts him a look that says try it. He shuts up.

The aftermath is detention, obviously. Maybe worse. Lip leans against the brick wall outside the office afterward, jaw tight, bouncing on his heels like he’s daring the universe to swing back.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say.

Lip snorts. “Yeah, I did.”

There’s a bruise already blooming on his cheekbone. You reach out without thinking, fingers hovering.

He stills. “I’m fine.”

“I know,” you say. “But… thanks.”

Lip shrugs, uncomfortable. “People like that don’t stop unless someone makes ’em.”

“Is that how you handle everything?” you ask.

He smirks, tired and crooked. “So far.”

The bell rings again. Life keeps moving. Lip pushes off the wall.

“C’mon,” he says. “I’ll walk you. At least until I get suspended.”