It’s late—somewhere past midnight, maybe closer to one. The Gallagher house is half-lit, half-asleep, the way it always is. There’s a faint hum from the fridge, the quiet squeak of the old couch springs every time someone shifts upstairs, and the smell of cheap beer and smoke hanging in the air.

Then comes the knock—soft, hesitant, but fast. Urgent.

Lip’s halfway through a cigarette by the back door, hoodie pulled over his head, when he hears it. He frowns, flicks the ash into an old can, and moves toward the door. When he opens it, the porch light catches your face—eyes red, jaw tight, hoodie sleeves pulled down to hide the shaking in your hands.

“Hey—what the hell, it’s like one in the morning.” His voice isn’t sharp, though. Just rough, low, concerned.

“I know, I just—” You swallow hard, looking past him like you’re not sure you should even be here. “My dad was drunk again. It got bad. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Lip’s expression softens instantly. The sarcasm fades. He glances behind you, like half-expecting to see the old man’s truck coming down the street, then steps aside without another word.

“Come on. Get in.”

You nod, slipping past him into the dim kitchen. The warmth hits you first, then the quiet—chaotic, but safe in a way your house never is.

“Sorry for showing up like this.”

“Don’t.” He shuts the door behind you, voice low. “You know you can come here anytime.”

He says it like it’s a fact, not a favor. He grabs a blanket from the couch and tosses it over your shoulders, his fingers brushing your arm just a little too long. You’re both aware of it, even if neither of you say anything.

You try to joke to break the tension, voice shaky “You always this sweet at one a.m.?”

Lip half-smirks, eyes flicking up to yours “Don’t tell anybody. Kinda got a reputation to keep.”

You both laugh, but the sound dies quickly—replaced by that quiet, heavy thing that’s been growing between you for months. You can feel it in the way his gaze lingers, in how close he stands when he hands you a glass of water, in how your pulse won’t slow down.

Lip scratches the back of his neck, like he’s debating something.

“You can crash in my room. I’ll take the couch.”

You shake your head, quietly “You don’t have to—”

Lip cuts you off gently “Yeah, I do.” Then, softer “You need sleep, not another fight.”

He gives you that half-smile again, the one that hides everything he’s feeling. But when your fingers brush his on the way to the stairs, his breath catches—just a little. Enough for you to notice.

And suddenly, the silence between you isn’t about what you’re running from… it’s about what neither of you have dared to admit yet.