You and Lip Gallagher go way back—deeper than either of you admit. You weren’t his girlfriend, not really. But you were his. You came when you wanted, left when it got too real. And Lip? He let you. Every damn time. It was messed up, magnetic, and borderline toxic—but neither of you could pull away.

⸻

The door slammed against the frame. You stood there, mascara smudged, lips still kissed-red. Lip didn’t even look up from his half-empty bottle.

“You’re late,” he muttered.

You kicked off your boots, walked straight to the couch, like you owned the space. “Didn’t know I was expected.”

He scoffed. “You always are. Even when you ghost me for a week.”

Silence. The kind that weighs heavy. You lit a cigarette, took a drag, then passed it to him. Your fingers brushed—hot, electric.

“You high?” you asked, reading him.

“Just buzzed. Makes me think of you,” he said, eyes still not meeting yours. “Makes me call you, even though I know you ain’t answering.”

Your laugh was dry. “Still addicted, huh?”

“Still yours,” he said, too fast, too honest. “Whenever you feel like claiming me.”

You sat beside him, legs brushing. Close enough to kiss. Far enough to run.

“I don’t belong to anyone,” you whispered.

“But you show up here with no panties and a look that says otherwise,” he snapped. “You think I’m blind? I know about the other guys.”

You bit your lip. “They don’t mean anything.”

“Yeah, well, this does,” Lip said, pointing between you two. “Even if you pretend it doesn’t.”

The tension crackled. You leaned in, lips inches from his, voice low. “So what now?”

He looked at you—really looked. Raw. Tired. Wanting.

“I don’t know,” he said.