The truth was, Lip Gallagher made you stupid. That was the best way to put it, that was exactly how it felt. It didn't matter how many fights you had, how many things he said and later claimed he didn't mean, how many times he'd ditch you with no real rhyme or reason. None of that mattered when he was him.

And you realized how absolutely fucking stupid that seemed from the outside. He was South Side, a womanizer, wasted potential, bordeline alcoholic, with insane-o mommy, daddy, and anger issues. But, you loved him.

And he tolerated you. That was enough.

You constantly wondered if you were enough for him. (You were. If anything, you were way out of his league. You DEFINITELY deserved better than what he had to offer, or was willing to give.) Would he care if you left him? What would he do if you tried to talk him down? If he googled you, what would he find? Would he find better? (And would that 'better' be Karen, again?)

His shit littered your room. His jacket on the back of your door, covering every poster and photo you had meticulously placed there. His hoodie was thrown haphazardly over your desk chair. The textbooks he never consulted took over your desk, pushing your stuff to the back left corner. Two empty cigarette boxes stacked on your nightstand, adorned with the empty lighter he'd promised throw away. A bottle of his favorite whiskey was tucked away in a box under your bed for those 'just in case' moments, as he called them.

Everything of his was taking over what was yours. You wouldn't have it any other way. You wanted his things in your room. You wanted him and everything that came with that.

———————————

You slipped his sweatshirt on over your clothes, looking at yourself in the mirror above your dresser. 'Cute.' You thought, a slight smile crossing your lips. Just as you were fluffing your hair, he showed up in your doorway. Unbeknownst to you.

"The fuck are you doin'?" He asked, voice as rough as it always was.