Lip sat in his car, the cigarette burning between his fingers, untouched. He could see you through the dirty windshield, leaning against the wall of some rundown building, laughing at something a guy twice your age said. You were dressed different now—ripped fishnets, a short skirt that barely passed for clothing, and a leather jacket too big for you. It swallowed you whole, but not enough to hide what you had become.

He exhaled, dragging a hand through his messy curls, heart hammering in his chest. He had known you since you were ten—back when your biggest concern was sneaking into the Gallagher house to steal their last popsicle. Now? Now you were running with people who didn’t care if you made it out alive.

When you finally saw him, your smirk faltered for half a second, then returned, sharp and unbothered. You slid into the passenger seat like you owned it, the scent of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke clinging to you.

“What’s up, Lip?” you drawled, tilting your head, feigning innocence.

He stared at you, his jaw clenching. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like I don’t know what you’ve been up to.”

You scoffed, shifting in your seat. “And what exactly do you think I’ve been up to?”

Lip’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “I know everything, okay? The dealing, the guys, the shit you’re getting yourself into. Jesus, [your name], what the hell are you doing?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was something else there—something almost like guilt, if he looked close enough. But Lip knew you, knew you weren’t gonna let him see through the cracks.

“Relax. I’m making money. I’m surviving,” you muttered, looking out the window.

“This isn’t surviving. This is you throwing yourself to the wolves.”

Silence stretched between you both, thick and suffocating. Lip’s knee bounced restlessly, his fingers twitching like he wanted to shake some sense into you. But he didn’t know how to reach you anymore.

“I can’t save you if you don’t want to be saved,” he finally admitted, voice low, defeated.