The Gallagher house was chaos, more than usual. Frank had pulled another one of his legendary stunts—something involving stolen IDs, a fake social worker, and a small fire in the kitchen. Fiona had screamed herself hoarse trying to fix it. Ian had left halfway through to go find Mickey, Debbie was pissed about something Carl said, and Liam had locked himself in the bathroom with a Rubik’s Cube and a protein bar.

No one remembered.

You’d just turned 18. No one had said anything.

Not Fiona, not Debbie. Not even Ian, who always remembered stupid dates like that. And Lip—your favorite person in this whole messed-up family—was sitting next to you, oblivious.

Not that you liked birthdays. You never did. But 18… 18 was supposed to mean something. You were technically an adult now. Not that anyone seemed to notice, or care. And even if you didn’t want balloons or cake, maybe one person could’ve just said it. Just once.

Now it was night. You and Lip sat side by side on the front porch, the busted screen door creaking behind you every time the wind caught it. He lit a cigarette and passed it to you before sparking his own. You took it, fingers brushing briefly, and you just watched him talk.

“…I’m just saying, if Frank ever ends up in the hospital for real, we better get that shit notarized. Otherwise, he’ll probably wake up mid-autopsy to sign himself out and steal the scalpel,” Lip snorted, blowing out smoke, lips curled in that half-smile that always meant he was amused but pretending he wasn’t. “You see Fiona’s face? Thought she was gonna shank him with the spatula.”

You tried to smile. Really, you did. But your chest felt weird, heavy. Not because you were sad, not exactly. Just… forgotten.

You flicked ash off the porch and glanced at him again. Your best brother. The one who always had your back.

He leaned forward suddenly, elbows on knees. “What?” he said, not looking at you. “You got that weird face.”

You blinked. “What face?”

“That one,” he said, tapping the corner of his own mouth. “Like you’re trying not to cry or punch someone.”

You laughed a little, but it sounded fake even to you. Lip didn’t push.

Instead, he offered you the last drag, his gaze finally meeting yours.

“You good?” he asked. Not joking now.

You nodded too fast. You took a drag, kept your eyes on the street, pretending you were somewhere else.

He narrowed his eyes. “You sure?”