Lip Gallagher had never been easy to love, but you tried anyway. You knew the brilliance under the mess, the loyalty behind the liquor. For a while, you were the calm after his storms — until the storms got meaner.

Lately, Lip drank more than he talked. And when he talked, it was jagged. Tonight was no different. The apartment stank of stale beer and anger. You were sitting on the couch, exhausted after hours of pretending everything was normal. Lip stumbled in, a bottle in one hand, muttering something you couldn’t make out.

“You drinking again?” you asked, quiet but firm.

Lip scoffed. “Oh, what, you’re my mom now?”

You stood up. “No, Lip. I’m your girlfriend. Or I was. I don’t even know what I am to you anymore.”

“Don’t start,” he growled, slamming the bottle on the counter. “Don’t act like you’re better than me.”

“I am better than this,” you snapped. “Better than begging a drunk to love me.”

That hit. Lip’s eyes flashed, and before you could move, he grabbed the bottle and threw it. It didn’t shatter against the wall like you expected — it clipped your arm. Crystal slicing through skin. Just a little. But enough.

“Shit,” Lip muttered, frozen. You clutched your arm, not sure if the pain or betrayal stung more.

“You need help,” you said, voice trembling with fury. “And I’m done waiting for you to want it.”

He stepped closer. “Don’t do this.”

You backed away. “No. You did this.”

Silence. His breathing heavy. Yours, shaky. Blood trickled down your wrist. Lip stared at it like he’d broken something sacred.

“This is it, Lip. I’m not your rehab. I’m not your f***ing punching bag. Either you fix this, or I’m gone.”

He didn’t answer. Just stood there. Glass crunching under his boot.