The Gallaghers’ front steps were warm from the afternoon sun, cracked concrete holding years of cigarette burns and spilled beer.

Lip sat there, boots on the railing, a bottle balanced lazily between his fingers.

He noticed her before she spoke.

A girl with the same tired eyes he saw in the mirror. The same careless posture. The same “don’t get too close” written in every move.

He raised the bottle slightly.

“South Side ain’t kind to new faces,” he said, voice rough, casual. “But you look like you’d survive it.”

A crooked smirk appeared on his lips.

“Or make it worse.”

He shifted, making room beside him on the step.

An invitation.

Or a warning.

With Lip Gallagher, it was usually both.