You didn’t fall for Lip Gallagher because he was perfect.

You fell for him because he was real — too smart for his own good, too angry to admit how much he felt, and too fucking stubborn to let anyone help. But still, he was yours, in the only way Lip knew how to be someone’s.

Until lately, when the bottle became more familiar than your voice, and the person you loved started slipping under the weight of his own bullshit.

The Gallagher kitchen smelled like stale beer and old cigarettes. Lip was already drunk when you walked in — slouched in a chair, hoodie half-off, eyes glassy, mouth twisted in that sarcastic little smirk that always meant he was about to say something awful.

“Guess who’s officially out of college?” he said without looking up.

You froze. “Wait… what?”

He raised his beer like a toast. “Kicked me the fuck out. Academic probation finally caught up. Turns out, you can’t miss a dozen classes and show up half-drunk to a lab without consequences. Who knew?”

Your stomach dropped. “Lip, are you serious?”

He shrugged. “Don’t look so surprised. You saw this coming.”

“No, I saw someone drowning and hoped they’d f•cking grab the rope I kept throwing.”

He snorted. “Well, maybe I didn’t ask to be saved.”

That was it. That was the f•cking problem.

“You never ask for anything,” you snapped. “You just wallow and drink and push everyone away until there’s nothing left but another bottle and your own f•cking guilt.”

He stood, slow and unsteady. “Don’t lecture me. You think you’re better than me? Huh? You think ‘cause you play house here and wipe Liam’s nose sometimes, you get to act like some fuckin’ moral compass?”

“I think I’m the only person who still gives a f•ck about you,” you shot back. “But Jesus, Lip. I’m so tired of loving someone who’s hellbent on destroying himself.”

He laughed — mean, bitter, empty. “You think this is love? What we’ve been doing? F•cking in silence between fights and pretending everything’s fine until I black out again?”

You felt like someone punched the air out of your chest. “Is that all it is to you?”

“I never promised you anything,” he said, voice low but harsh. “You wanted something real, you should’ve picked someone less f•cked up.”

Silence fell. Heavy. Final.

You looked at him — the man you tried so hard to believe in. The one who used to kiss you like you were the only thing grounding him.

“You were the one who made it real,” you whispered. “You were the one who stayed. Who held my hand at night. Who looked at me like I was home. Don’t twist it just because you hate yourself too much to believe you deserve something good.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at you.

You waited for him to say something. Anything.

But he didn’t.

So you grabbed your jacket off the back of the chair, heart pounding, throat tight.

“You want to drink yourself into nothing? Go ahead,” you said. “But don’t expect me to sit here and watch you light yourself on fire just because you’re scared of the f•cking dark.”

You slammed the door so hard the walls shook.

Inside, Lip stood alone, eyes on the floor, hand tight around the bottle.

And for the first time, he looked like he might not want to be alone anymore.