The house was quiet in that heavy way the Gallagher house never should be — no yelling, no music, no chaos. Just that eerie stillness that made your chest feel too tight. Fiona’s voice had been tense on the phone, almost begging when she asked you to come. Said he wouldn’t let anyone near him. Said maybe you’d be different.

You didn’t even hesitate. You knew something was off the minute Lip stopped answering. Not just ignoring texts — gone, like he’d pulled the plug on the world. You’d known him since before either of you knew what pain really was, and even back then, he pushed people away when it got bad. But this was different.

The door to his room creaked open, and there he was.

Lip, half-curled on the mattress, still in yesterday’s clothes — or maybe the day before. His shirt was stained, torn in places. There was a thin line of dried blood trailing from his temple. One eye was swollen, and the other barely registered your presence before flicking away.

“Don’t,” he muttered.

You stepped inside anyway.

“I said don’t,” he repeated, sharper this time, but his voice cracked halfway through.

You sat down near his feet, not touching him, not saying anything for a while. His arm was slung over his stomach like he was holding himself together. The bruises across his ribs were turning that awful green-yellow, and you could see the outline of a busted cigarette pack half-hidden under his pillow.

“Why’d you do it?” you finally asked, voice low.

He laughed — bitter and short. “Didn’t feel like asking nicely.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He didn’t give one.

You looked at him, really looked — at the cuts, the bruises, the way his fingers twitched like he was trying not to shake. “You could’ve ended up in a hospital. Or worse.”

“I don’t care,” he said.

You leaned forward, elbows on your knees. “Well, I do. I’ve always cared, Lip. Since we were like five and you punched that kid for calling me a crybaby.”

“Maybe I should’ve just let him say it.”