The wind rattled the dented side of the Gallagher family’s old van, half-sunk in the uneven dirt patch out back. Its busted windows were taped over with plastic, and the backseat smelled like a mix of mildew, motor oil, and the faintest trace of weed from god-knows-when. But Lip Gallagher didn’t care. He tossed his lighter from hand to hand, then looked over at you with that sideways smirk of his — the one that always meant trouble, or at least something close to it.

You sat cross-legged in the passenger seat, a faded blanket between your thighs and the cracked vinyl. One of Lip’s old hoodies was wrapped around your shoulders, the sleeves too long, the hem frayed. He passed you the joint, fingers brushing yours for half a second longer than necessary.

“You know,” he said, watching the cherry burn bright as you inhaled, “this thing probably leaks so bad we’re hotboxing the whole South Side.”

You laughed, smoke curling from your lips. “Better than the house. Fiona’s screaming about rent, Carl’s got some weirdo in handcuffs in the living room, and Liam’s watching Shrek at full volume.”

Lip leaned back, tapping ash into a cracked mug that had been in the van longer than anyone could remember. “God forbid we get five minutes to ourselves.”

The silence between you stretched comfortably, broken only by the hum of distant traffic and the occasional clink of wind-chimes from the neighbor’s porch. The weed was mellow — nothing special, something Lip had grabbed from a guy he knew over near Fullerton. But with you beside him, head resting against the padded headrest, it felt like peace.

“You ever think about just… leaving?” you asked quietly, voice a little thick.

Lip looked over, surprised by the softness of your tone. “What, like a ‘get in the van and drive until we run out of gas’ kinda thing?”

“Exactly that,” you said. “Just go. No plan. No bullshit.”

He considered it, eyes tracing the ceiling of the van like he could already see the road overhead. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I do.”

You smiled, eyes a little glassy now, whether from the weed or the thought of something better.

Lip reached for your hand and squeezed it — rough fingers warm and a little calloused. “But if I go, you’re coming with me.”

Outside, the city kept moving — loud, messy, unforgiving. But in that old van with its broken heater and bad insulation, everything felt far away. Just you and Lip, tangled in smoke and static dreams.

And for a little while, that was enough.