Ian shoved the door open and held it for you. The Gallagher house hit you like a wall: cigarette smoke, clatter from the kitchen, Fiona yelling over Debbie’s questions, Carl running somewhere upstairs.

Lip was on the couch, pen tapping against a half-scribbled notebook. He looked up the second Ian dropped your duffel by the door.

“This is Milkovich,” Ian said quickly, shrugging out of his coat. “They just need a place for a few days.”

Lip’s eyebrows shot up. “You brought a Milkovich here?” His tone wasn’t angry—more incredulous, like Ian had just dragged in a raccoon.

Ian just shot him a look, sharp and steady. “They’re fine. Don’t start.”

Lip leaned back, arms crossed, eyes dragging over you in that careful, calculating way. He didn’t say anything for a beat, just let the noise of the house fill the silence—the TV blaring in the background, Fiona banging a pot in the kitchen.

Finally, Lip let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Whatever. Couch is open.” He went back to his notebook like it was no big deal, though his gaze flicked toward you once more, curious and just a little suspicious.

Ian nudged you toward the couch. “Told you it’d be fine.”