You and Lip have always been a storm. Not the kind that wrecks things and leaves—no. The kind that stays, that brews and crackles, that becomes home because it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. You met him when you were nine, Lip found you in the hallway in sixth grade, knees scraped, face stained with tears ‘cause some asshole eighth grader stole your lunch money. Lip had broken the kid’s nose and handed you your crumpled bills like it meant nothing. But to you, it was everything.

Since then, it’s been the two of you. Matching bruises, matching egos, matching tempers. You screamed at each other, slammed doors, cursed loud enough to shake the house—and then shared a cigarette ten minutes later, sitting on the curb like nothing ever happened. You knew when he was about to explode just by the way his jaw clenched. He knew when you were about to spiral by how your hands started to tremble. You were each other’s sirens. Each other’s danger zones.

But now, seventeen, this is different.

It was late. His voice came too fast, too loud. “You think I don’t notice the way you’ve been acting? Cold as hell. Like I’m some stranger.”

You folded your arms, jaw clenched. “You are a stranger lately. Always pissed off, always high, always acting like you’re too damn smart for everyone—too smart for me.”

He barked a laugh, sharp and bitter. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you. Miss ‘I’m not mad, just tired,’ then explodes like a psycho two seconds later? Grow the fuck up.”

“You think I don’t deal with shit?” you yelled, louder this time. “I’ve been dealing with you since we were kids, Lip! Picking you up off the goddamn floor when your drunk-ass dad broke chairs and bottles and you. I stayed when everyone else walked. I fucking stayed.”

His jaw twitched. “Don’t you throw that in my face.”

“Why the hell not? You throw every fucking thing else in mine,” you shot back.

“Oh, fuck you,” he snapped.

Your voice cracked with rage. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to say that to me!”

“You know what your problem is?” he shouted. “You need to be broken. You don’t know who you are without a fight. You’d rather burn everything than admit you might be wrong.”

“And you—” your voice shook now, hands trembling “—you just want someone to hurt the way you hurt. That’s all this is, isn’t it? Misery loves company, right? So you drag me down with you every fucking time.”

He stared at you like he didn’t even recognize you anymore. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I know more than you think,” you hissed. “I know that if I left, you wouldn’t chase me. You’d light a cigarette, down a beer, and pretend you never cared.”

“You think I don’t care?” he growled, voice lower now, but no less violent. “You think this is me not caring?”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your dumb hookups. I’m not scared of you, Lip.”

“You want me to hit you?” he snapped suddenly, too fast. His fist slammed the wall behind you, just to the right of your head—hard enough to crack the plaster. “Is that what you want?!”

You froze.

The words hit the air like fire.

He blinked once. Then twice. Then—

He grabbed the half-empty bottle from the counter and threw it. Not at you—past you. But it ended exploding against my body, glass and whiskey raining down around your legs. You flinched, too slow. Some shards caught your legs and lower belly, slicing through your skin a bit.

You looked down, blood already dripping.

“Fuck—fuck,” he muttered, pacing, hands tugging at his hair. But not once did he come close. Not once did he check if you were okay.

The first time he kinda hurt you. You didn’t cry , you were holding all your shit to not cry.

You just sat on the floor ,almost felling and saw the blood.