7

It was weird, how normal things started to feel.

Lip came over almost every morning now. Sometimes just for coffee, sometimes still in his boxers, sometimes with a cigarette already in his mouth and Conner throwing a shoe at his head from the hallway.

We started falling into a rhythm, the kind that felt dangerous in a way—too comfortable, too easy.

"Can you hand me the shampoo?" I asked through the curtain one morning.

Lip, half-asleep and brushing his teeth, muttered, "If you drop it again, I'm charging a fee."

"Really? What's the fee?"

"Breakfast. And maybe a little appreciation for my emotional labor."

I poked my head out, shampoo dripping down my forehead. "You literally just stood there."

He shrugged. "That's still support."

⸻

That Afternoon

We were in the Gallagher kitchen, me helping Fiona meal prep for the week—mostly because she bribed me with wine and Lip said she'd burn the house down without supervision.

Lip was on the floor trying to reattach the kickplate to the oven, mumbling curses while Conner and Lucas pretended to be Home Depot Managers and yelled advice.

"I need a screwdriver, not a toy hammer!" Lip snapped.

"Too bad," Conner said, handing him a plastic one from Liam's toolset. "This is what you get."

"You're fired."

"You don't have the authority—I'm regional."

From the table, Fiona smirked. "You two are a mess."

"We're adorable," I corrected, stacking containers. "There's a difference."

She looked over at me, suddenly serious. "You really like him, huh?"

I paused for a second, glancing toward the floor where Lip was now pretending to wrestle a drill out of Lucas's hands.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "I do."

Fiona smiled, then raised an eyebrow. "You should probably tell him that."

"I did."

She looked surprised. "And he didn't implode?"

"Not yet."

⸻

Later That Night

It was one of those rare nights where all the kids went to bed early—Lucas had a cold, Conner was exhausted from "managing" Lip, and Grandma had taken a sleeping pill by mistake thinking it was an iron tablet. So the house was weirdly still.

Lip and I sat on my bed, backs against the wall, legs tangled, passing a half-eaten bag of gummy worms back and forth.

"This is kinda gross," I said, chewing slowly.

"You say that after, like, ten?"

I shrugged. "I'm deeply flawed."

He leaned over, brushed his lips against mine, then kissed me again, longer. Slower.

"You know," he said after a second, resting his forehead against mine. "I keep thinking... maybe this is the best thing I've ever had."

My stomach fluttered. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And then—BANG BANG BANG.

Someone pounding on the front door.

We both froze.

"Don't answer it," I whispered immediately. "It's probably Frank."

"Frank doesn't knock," Lip muttered. "He just kicks the door open and asks for money."

We stayed still.

BANG BANG.

More urgent.

I slid off the bed. Lip followed.

By the time we reached the front room, Grandma was half-awake, standing at the end of the hall in a robe and one slipper. "You expecting someone?"

"No," I said, heart thumping.

Lip opened the door.

A guy stood there—maybe late twenties. Buzzcut. Worn hoodie. Hands shoved in his pockets. He looked at Lip, then at me.

"You Erin?"

I stepped forward slowly. "Yeah..."

He nodded once. "Cool. I'm your brother."

I stared at him. "What?"

He looked between all of us. "Different mom. Same dad. I just got out."

Lip stepped forward, tense. "Out of where?"

The guy grinned, humorless. "Prison."