You and Lip Gallagher met a few months ago when he stumbled into the strip club where you work — not as a customer, but chasing his drunk friend out. You were wiping down the bar, annoyed, and Lip—sarcastic and disheveled—threw out a one-liner that made you smirk. Since then, he’s been showing up more often. You’re not dating. You’re not a couple. Just… friends, with a weird tension always crackling underneath.

⸻

The neon buzz of the club bleeds into the alley behind it, painting Lip’s face in soft red and blue. He’s leaning against the brick wall, a cigarette hanging from his fingers, eyes trailing the curve of your mouth as you finish telling some wild customer story.

“You’re gonna get lung cancer before you hit thirty,” you mutter, flicking ash off his sleeve like it’s lint.

He smirks. “We all gotta die of something.”

You roll your eyes but don’t move away. The night hums. You’re still in your work outfit, heels dangling from your hand, hair slightly undone. Lip looks like he just crawled out of a fight—or maybe straight out of your head.

“I saw you with that guy earlier,” he says casually, but his jaw tightens like a trap. “The one with the bad cologne and worse jokes.”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Gallagher.”

He laughs, short and dry. “Good thing I’m not jealous, then.”

You raise a brow. “Right. You just came back here to… what, critique my life choices?”

He shrugs, looks away, then back. His voice drops. “Maybe I came because this is the only place I don’t feel like everything’s falling apart.”

Your breath catches. He never talks like this. Not really.