You’ve never felt his hands so gentle. Lip holds a cotton ball to your split lip, pressing it down firm to clot the bleeding, his other hand still raking through messy hair. They’re shaking, a slight tremble, but so soft against your scalp.

“Y’know I’m gonna fuckin’ kill ‘m, right?” He whispers, voice hoarse and low and dark. “Goddamn bastard has it coming.”

And then, suddenly, he’s standing up. Tugging on his jacket and fumbling for his shoes. “Fiona!” Lip practically yells in the direction of the stairs. “Ya gotta watch her, ‘m going out!” He’s calling to his older sister, before muttering, “gotta fix this goddamn problem.”