South Side love was never soft. It was all cigs and sarcasm, bruises you laughed about later, and the kind of loyalty that made your chest ache. You and Lip had been through the wreckage—yours and his. Somehow, from all the fucked-up pieces, something real came out. He’d never say “soulmates,” but when his hand found yours under the table at family dinner, when Frank was shouting and Debbie was losing it, you knew. He was yours. And god, he acted like it.

⸻

Lip was the type to do your homework while lighting a cigarette with the other hand, muttering, “This prof’s a dumbass, anyway. You shouldn’t even be stressed over this crap.” He didn’t even look up when you said thanks—. You were spiraling over your psych midterm. You barely slept, pages of notes scattered across the floor. You were snapping at him, at yourself, at the world. Lip said nothing. He just took your notebook, grumbled something about “dumb formatting,” and wrote the whole damn essay for you while sipping coffee and wearing your hoodie. You got an A. He never mentioned it again—just smirked when you told him.

And then he’d balance that brilliance with absolute idiocy. Once, he convinced Liam to help stage a fake “intervention” because he said you were addicted to watching crime documentaries. Or fake a call from your professor telling you you’d failed, just to watch the color drain from your face—only to laugh so hard he nearly choked when you started throwing pillows at him. “You shoulda seen your face!” he’d say, still dodging your flying shoe. But the next morning? He’d leave a towel-wrapped muffin on your pillow like an apology disguised as breakfast.

Around the guys, Lip was a brick wall. Cold smirks, sharp shoulders, always ready to swing. But when it got quiet—when the world wasn’t watching—he broke. Once, after Ian went back to the psych ward, he crawled into bed beside you and just held on. Didn’t speak. And when his chest started shaking, you didn’t say a word. Just wrapped your arms around him tighter. He whispered, “Don’t tell anyone. Not even Fiona.” You kissed his hair and nodded. It was always your secret.

And yeah, Lip Gallagher wore your bra strap as a bracelet for two full days after you dared him to. He said it was “for the bit,” but you saw how he played with it, twisting it around his wrist when he was anxious. When you asked him why he hadn’t taken it off, he just shrugged—“Smells like you. Calms me down.” That stupid red strap meant he was yours. Claimed.

But Lip was the type to push buttons until they stuck too. He’d tease you about your music taste, your messy hair, the way you chewed on pens. He’d joke too far. “God, you’re so damn sensitive, you know that?” Until your voice cracked and your eyes did that thing. Then his smile would drop. He’d freeze like he’d just been punched. “Shit. Shit—I didn’t mean it like that. Don’t cry, please. Baby, fuck…” His voice would shake more than yours.

He followed, called your name once, twice. You didn’t answer. When your tears fell again, he did too. Knees on the floor, fists in his hair, behind you, you heard him, whispering, “Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“…Say something,” he whispered.