The second Lip saw you standing there, frozen in the middle of the grow house, his expression shattered. His shirt was wrinkled, dirt smeared across his face, a fresh cut beneath his eye. He looked like he had been through hell, but nothing compared to the way he was looking at you now—like you were the one who had just knocked the air out of his lungs.

“You,” he exhaled, voice raw. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Your stomach twisted, but you didn’t say anything. What could you say? The truth was all around you—the plants, the duffel bag stuffed with cash, the faint scent clinging to your clothes.

Lip ran a hand through his messy hair, pacing. “Are you serious? This is what you’ve been doing? All those nights you said you were ‘just handling something’—this was it?”

You swallowed hard. “Lip—”

“Don’t.” His voice cracked. “Don’t stand there and lie to me again.”

The silence between you was suffocating. You had never seen Lip look like this—not angry, not smug, not reckless. Just… hurt.

“I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d react like this,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Lip let out a bitter laugh. “You didn’t tell me because you knew it was screwed up.” He gestured around. “You’re dealing in the same game that’s ruined half the people we know, and you thought I wouldn’t care?”

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Lip shook his head. “Bullshit. There’s always a choice.” He took a step back, like he couldn’t even stand being near you. “I just thought you were better than this.”