You didn’t belong there—at least that’s what they thought. The South Side smelled like old beer, hot pavement, and unresolved trauma. You knew none of that when you pulled up in your dusty Porsche. You’d left behind the North Side, not because you had to—but because you needed to. Independence sounded better than champagne brunches and a family name that didn’t feel like yours.

You’d bought a rundown house next to the Gallaghers. Everyone knew them—hell, you’d heard their chaos through the walls more than once. You didn’t want attention, so your renovation was quiet, tasteful. But here, a house with new windows and decent paint was practically a mansion. People stared. Whispered. Called you “rich bitch” before you even spoke a word.

The whole block was buzzing, whispers about the “new girl with the nice house,” especially from the Gallaghers. You’d seen them, noticed their wary glances and judging eyes. They’d pegged you instantly: a rich, rude Barbie who didn’t belong. Nobody talked to you, nobody crossed that invisible line.

You kept to yourself. Never rude, but never trying. You weren’t from here. You didn’t pretend to be.

Then came the fences.

Security, mostly. A quiet need to feel in control. But to them, it looked like arrogance. Especially to him—Lip Gallagher.

Lip had seen you. More than once. At first, he just rolled his eyes—another rich girl slumming it for the “experience,” probably. Thought maybe you were some rich girl running from daddy’s money. And now here you were, clicking out of your Porsche in a tight black skirt and boots that had no business touching Southside pavement.

He was leaning against the tree, he put out the cigarette with his foot , watching you fumble with the fence remote. He let out a short laugh—half amused, half cruel.

You were getting out of your Porsche—the old one, the one that still worked but didn’t scream look at me. The fences you had installed clicked shut behind you. It wasn’t some fancy security system, just a basic lock, but it stood out. No one around here had a fence like that. Not one that actually worked.

That’s when you heard it—his voice.

“Security fence, huh? What’s next, Barbie, a moat and a dragon? This ain’t Beverly Hills, princess.”

You paused. Tilted your sunglasses down just enough to meet his eyes. He expected you to walk past. Maybe flip your hair and scoff. But instead, you laughed. You really laughed.

You turned to him, your smile calm, sharp. “You volunteering to be the dragon, Gallagher? ‘Cause all I see is a lot of smoke and no fire.”

His smirk faltered—just for a second—then he huffed a laugh, tried to hide it, eyes narrowing like you’d just cheated at a game he thought he was winning.

He grinned, the kind of grin that says he likes the game but refuses to admit it. “Guess you’re not just some rich girl playing house, huh?”

“Guess not,” you said, stepping back. “But don’t get used to being my fan.”

He watched you disappear behind the ridiculous security gate, jaw tight, the kind of pissed-off that wasn’t really mad. The kind that stuck.

He hated people like you. So why was he still staring?

The next morning, you’re in your kitchen, frying eggs, when you realize—no salt. You shrug on a jacket over your pajamas and head next door, hoping to borrow some.

You knock on the Gallagher’s door, just as it swings open—Lip steps out, a half-empty cup of coffee in hand, eyes tired and a frown already forming. all the Gallagher chaos behind him, Fiona yelling Carl and Debbie to eat breakfast, Ian doing some shit, baby Liam crying, Frank wasted on the couch…

“Barbie?” He frowned. “What the hell you want? A blur prince to rescue you, huh?” he mutters, voice rough, clearly not a morning person.