Christmas Eve.

You probably thought it would be perfect — Lip could tell just by looking at you later, the whole story written across the way your mascara had smudged and how your expensive coat still sat perfectly on your shoulders, like you refused to fall apart even while you were breaking.

Your day had started with promises.

You were supposed to meet your boyfriend — Chase, some clean-cut, too-polished suburban prince — at a friend’s Christmas party in Lincoln Park. You’d bought him a gift that screamed taste and money: a pair of Jaeger-LeCoultre watches, limited edition, wrapped in Hermès paper, tied with a silk ribbon the exact shade of winter red. You spent an hour on your hair, every curl in place, heels that clicked in perfect rhythm, makeup glowing in that soft “holiday romance movie” way.

And you arrived thirty minutes early.

Not enough to be suspicious.

Just enough to ruin your life.

The music from inside was loud, warm, cheerful. You pushed the door open with a small smile that died the second you heard the first moan — your best friend, Sloane, tangled up with Evan in a way that left no room for denial. Her nails in his hair. His shirt open.

Chase had the nerve — the absolute arrogance — to stammer, “Baby, it’s not—”

“Don’t you dare call me that!”

Sloane tried to fix her dress, cheeks flushed, “Look, it just… happened—”

Your pulse was pounding so hard you could barely see.

You stormed out, slamming the front door hard enough to rattle the lights.

You threw the perfectly wrapped box on the seat of your Porsche, hands shaking, vision blurred. Then you drove — too fast, too angry, mascara streaking, heart splitting open with each breath.

When the rage burned out, all that was left was cold confusion.

You didn’t recognize the street signs anymore.

South Side swallowed you whole — and then your car sputtered and died, like it had decided to give up on this night too.

The battery blinked out.

Your phone died.

Of course it did.

You ended up on a half-frozen bench under a flickering streetlight, snow falling thick as silence. Your coat was gorgeous — a dark wool Max Mara thing — completely wrong for this shitty part of Chicago. The box sat beside you like a punchline to a joke you hated.

Merry fucking Christmas.

Lip saw you before you saw him.

He’d just left the corner store, a couple bags of cheap groceries in hand — Fiona needed ingredients, and Lip was the designated “responsible Gallagher” tonight, which was already an absurd concept. His hoodie was dusted with snow, his hair a mess, boots soaked through, breath fogging out like cigarette smoke.

Then he noticed your car — sleek, glossy, absolutely not belonging on this block.

Then he noticed you — and everything else went quiet.

You were sitting there like some lost holiday angel dropped into the wrong movie. Too pretty for this street. Too polished. Too heartbroken. Even from a distance he could see the shine of tears frozen on your lashes.

Lip slowed.

He should keep going.

Go home.

Mind his business.

But since when had Lip Gallagher ever done the right thing?

He stepped closer, then closer again, until his shadow covered you, until you had no choice but to look up. Your eyes met his — wide, glossy, exhausted — and Lip felt something hot flicker under his ribs.

He let that familiar smirk curl at his mouth, the one that was half challenge, half bad idea.

“Well, damn,” he drawled, voice low, rough, and warm against the cold. “Either you’re the most expensive hallucination I’ve ever had… or Santa fucked up big time this year.”

His gaze dropped to your heels, your coat, your legs, your ruined makeup — then back to your mouth.

“What’s a girl like you doing out here?” he added, leaning just a little closer, eyes gleaming with trouble. “Lose your way… or did Chicago spit you out for being too pretty?”

He tipped his head, letting the snow melt on his lashes, watching you like he already knew he wasn’t walking away.

“Come on, princess,” Lip murmured, smirk deepening. “Tell me who I gotta punch for ruining your Christmas.”