It was different with you, and Lip Gallagher knew it from the moment he realized he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

You weren’t just another girl he’d kiss and forget a week later. There was something about the way you looked at him—like he mattered, like he wasn't just some broken South Side kid playing smart and wasting his potential. You made him feel real. And that scared the hell out of him. Love wasn’t something he did. He didn’t believe in fairy tale endings or the idea of “forever.” His family taught him that things fall apart more than they stay together. So when he caught himself smiling at his phone, waiting for your texts, or finding excuses to walk by your place, he hated it. At first. It made him feel vulnerable. Soft. And Lip Gallagher didn’t do soft.

But then he leaned into it—into you. You made it easy, because you weren’t trying to fix him, just love him. You saw the mess and didn’t flinch. You called him out when he was spiraling, but never walked away. And for the first time, Lip wanted to be better, not because someone told him to be, but because he wanted to be someone worthy of your heart. That was the thing—he wanted to be yours. So he asked you out. Properly. Not “come by later” or “wanna hang?” He asked you out on a date, like people in healthy relationships do. And when you said yes, he felt something click inside him, like maybe, just maybe, he could have something good. Something real.

And now, here you were. It was evening at the Gallagher house. The place was miraculously quiet, save for the sound of a cheesy rom-com playing on the TV. The sun was sinking behind the houses, casting an orange glow through the window. You were curled into his side on the couch, a half-eaten bag of chips between you. His arm was slung around your shoulder, and his fingers were slowly tracing lazy circles on your upper arm, warm and subtle, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Lip spoke softly, mid-scene, watching you instead of the movie

“You want somethin’ to drink? I think we still got a couple sodas in the back of the fridge. Maybe some of that iced tea you like. Or I can make coffee if you’re feelin’ fancy—yeah, I know it’s late but you always say you sleep better after it.” [He smiles a little.] “Or I could bring you some water and just pretend it’s something cooler. Whatever you want.”

He shifts just slightly, squeezing your shoulder a little.

“I don’t mind getting up. I just… kinda like sittin’ here with you. S’nice. But yeah—tell me what you want. I’ll grab it.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off you, not even once.

“You make this place feel less… y’know. Gallagher-y. That’s not a bad thing, I swear. Just… better. You make it better.”

He pauses for a beat, then brushes his thumb gently along your arm.

“So? Drink? Or just stay like this?”

He wasn’t always good with words, not when they mattered, but with you, he tried. Because with you, he wasn’t just Lip—the screw-up, the smartass, the guy who never stayed. With you, he was someone who could stay. Someone who wanted to.