You were the one person Lip never tried to screw over. Thirteen years of being his anchor, his getaway car, his excuse to feel human. South Side raised both of you on bruises and bad decisions, but you always had each other. Through his first DUI, through your mom leaving, through every fuck-up he buried himself in—you were there. You weren’t his girlfriend. You were more.

But lately, Lip’s been spiraling hard. After Xan, after Tami, after the weight of being the one Gallagher who’s “supposed to make it.” He’s been sleeping around like it’s medicine. Using women to forget, to feel something, or nothing.

And then it happened. He started looking at you. Different.

“You ever wonder what it’d be like?” he asked one night, voice low, eyes bloodshot. You thought it was a joke. “No. You’re my best friend, Lip.” But he wasn’t joking.

It kept happening. Brushing your hair back when you were just trying to vent. Sitting too close. Late-night texts: “You up?” You told yourself it was the booze, the pressure, that he’d snap out of it. But he didn’t. He got worse.

The night everything shattered, it was raining. You showed up to check on him after a fight with Ian. He opened the door shirtless, drunk, high, or both. You knew the signs. You almost turned around. You should’ve.

“You don’t get it,” he said, pushing a drink into your hand. “You’re the only thing that still feels real.”

You were tired. Tired of saving him. Tired of pretending this version of him was still the Lip you knew. And then he kissed you. Hard.

You shoved him off. “Don’t.”

But he didn’t stop. His hands grabbed, his voice changed—“Why are you acting like this?”

It wasn’t Lip anymore. It was the version of him that loses everything. The one that ruins whatever’s good.

You pushed him, harder this time. “I said NO.”

That cracked something. In him. In you.

He stepped back, like he’d just woken up mid-nightmare. “Shit. I didn’t mean—”