17

Liam's been staying with us for a week now, and I thank God every day that he's an easy kid.

Lip's handling it better than I thought he would, honestly.

It's 10:40 when my phone rings. The school's number flashes on the screen.

"They just got there," I mutter to myself before answering.

"Hello?"

"Hi, is this Ms. Bishop?" a woman's voice asks politely.

"Yes—what happened? Are the boys okay?" I answer quickly, already bracing for bad news.

"They're fine," she says. "I'm calling regarding Conner... oh, and Carl Gallagher. I tried calling his parents, but no one picked up. Carl said you'd probably be with his older brother."

My stomach drops. "What the hell did they do?"

"Well," she says, her tone calm but edged with disbelief, "as the students were coming into school this morning, Conner and Carl got into an argument with another student. And it ended with them—excuse my language—beating the shit out of him."

"Holy shit," I breathe, slowly glancing over at Lip. He's across the room, mouthing what?

"Okay... I'm assuming you need us to come pick them up?" I ask, rubbing my temples.

"Yes, ma'am. They're suspended until next Friday, and they'll need to write a formal apology to the other student involved."

I hang up, and Lip's on me instantly.

"What the fuck happened?"

"Our brothers got suspended from school for beating the shit out of a kid," I say flatly.

Lip sighs. "Even Lucas?"

"No, not Lucas," I snort. "He's probably too busy charming the lunch ladies."

We leave Liam with Kev and V and start walking to the school.

"The lady said she tried calling Fiona but couldn't get ahold of her. You think that's weird?" I ask, our hands laced together.

Lip scoffs. "I'd be more surprised if she picked up."

We pass the time betting on what the fight was about. My money's on Carl mouthing off first; Lip says it was probably over something stupid like cafeteria pizza.

The second we step into the office, we spot them—minus Lucas—slumped in the waiting chairs.

"You don't get to talk," I say the second Carl opens his mouth, holding up a hand.

He glances at Lip, who shrugs. "You heard her."

The principal steps out, wearing the exact look of who the hell raised you people.

"You must be Mr. and Mrs. Bishop," he says.

Lip and I both laugh.

"Oh, no," I say quickly. "I'm Erin Bishop—Conner's sister. This is Lip Gallagher, Carl's brother."

"I'm Mr. Monroe, the principal," he says, coming closer. "I don't know what goes on at your houses, but that doesn't slide here. When these boys come back, they'd better be stellar students. Because the next step is permanent suspension." He doesn't wait for a response before turning and walking off.

We step outside, the boys trailing behind us in silence.

"Why?" I ask finally.

Carl answers first. "He was calling Liam a retard."

Lip's head snaps toward him. "What?" His voice is sharp enough to cut glass.

"The whole bus ride," Conner says steadily. "He kept saying we should ride the short bus 'cause that's where Liam belongs. Whispering 'retard brother' over and over. By the time we got to school, we were sick of it. So we started swinging."

Lip runs a hand over his face. "They're dead fucking wrong if they think you're gonna apologize for that."

⸻

Back at the house, Liam's exactly where we left him—curled up on the couch in the living room, eyes glued to cartoons, a pile of Goldfish crackers in his lap. He glances up when we come in but stays quiet.

Carl drops to the floor beside him like nothing happened. Conner follows, flopping down cross-legged.

I shake my head. "You two better get comfortable. You're grounded until I'm not still picturing you pounding that kid into the pavement."

Carl shrugs, clearly unbothered. Conner smirks. "Worth it."

An hour later, Lucas comes home from school, backpack half unzipped and hanging off one shoulder. He takes one look at the living room lineup and laughs. "Wow. Suspended club?"

Carl throws a pillow at him. "Jealous?"

Lucas grins. "Nope. I like recess too much."

⸻

That night, the chaos finally dies down. Kev and V are next door, the boys are upstairs, and Liam's asleep in the guest room. The house feels still in a way it never does—quiet, heavy, like we're the only ones in it.

Lip's leaning against the kitchen counter when I walk in, wearing one of his sweatshirts and shorts, hair still damp from my shower. He looks up, slow grin spreading across his face as his eyes drag over me.

"You know..." he says, voice low, "you're kinda scary when you're in boss mode."

I lift a brow. "Scary?"

"Kinda hot, too."

Before I can fire back, he's closing the distance. The bag of pretzels hits the counter, and his hands are on my hips, fingers sliding under the hem of the sweatshirt, warm against my skin.

"You're saying that so I'll let you get away with something," I murmur.

"Maybe," he says, then his mouth is on mine.

It starts slow, but Lip's never been one for slow. His hands grip my hips harder, pulling me closer until my back hits the counter. I hook my fingers in the collar of his shirt, dragging him in, and he deepens the kiss—tongue brushing mine, breathing heavier already. His hand slips down to the back of my thigh, lifting me so I'm sitting on the counter, legs opening for him automatically.

He presses between them, the hard line of him impossible to ignore, and the sweatshirt rides up. His hands skim over bare skin, rough and hungry.

"Bedroom," he mutters against my mouth, already pulling me down from the counter.

We barely make it down the hall. He keeps stopping to kiss me—slamming me lightly into the wall, one hand braced beside my head while the other roams under my clothes. I'm half laughing, half breathless, pulling at his shirt until I finally get it over his head.

The bedroom door bangs shut behind us. He pushes me back onto the bed, crawling over me, his mouth everywhere—jaw, throat, collarbone—nipping just enough to make me gasp. My sweatshirt comes off, tossed somewhere in the dark, and his hands are instantly on my chest, squeezing, thumbs dragging over my nipples through the thin fabric of my bra.

He yanks the bra straps down, lips replacing his hands, sucking just hard enough to pull a moan out of me. His hands slide down, hooking in the waistband of my shorts and underwear, tugging them down in one go.

"Fuck, Erin..." he says, voice rough, eyes locked on me like he's trying to take in every detail.

I reach for him, pulling his jeans open, shoving them down along with his boxers. He groans when my hand wraps around him, his head dropping to my shoulder for a second before he's pushing me back, climbing between my legs.

He kisses me hard, one hand sliding between us, fingers finding me and working me until I'm gasping against his mouth. Then he's lining himself up, pushing in slow at first, just enough to make me feel every inch before his hips snap forward.

It's rough, fast, the mattress squeaking under us. His mouth finds my neck again, teeth scraping over my skin, one hand gripping my hip so tight I'll feel it tomorrow. My hands dig into his back, nails dragging when he changes his angle and hits that spot that makes me cry out.

"Right there?" he mutters, breath hot against my ear.

"Yeah—fuck—don't stop," I gasp, and he doesn't.

It builds quick—too quick—and when I come, it's hard enough that I have to bite his shoulder to keep quiet. He follows right after, hips jerking, his face buried in my neck as he lets out a low, muffled groan.

For a minute, the only sound in the room is our breathing. He collapses beside me, still catching his breath, one arm flung over my waist. He presses a lazy kiss to my bare shoulder.

"Definitely not scary," he mumbles.

I smile into the pillow, still flushed. "Told you."

We finally collapse against each other, sweaty and tangled, hearts still hammering. I press my face into Lip's shoulder, and he's still breathing hard, his arm draped over me like he isn't letting go anytime soon.

For a while, we just lay there, letting the quiet of the house settle around us. No phones, no yelling, no chaos—just the soft creak of the old floorboards and the distant hum of the heater.

Eventually, I feel sunlight stabbing me in the face, and I squint, realizing the blinds didn't make it through the night. My legs are still tangled with his, the blanket half off the bed.

"Mornin'," Lip mutters, voice rough and scratchy.

"Morning," I whisper back, a lazy smile tugging at my lips.

He shifts a little, and his hand slides lower, brushing over my hip. "Morning," he repeats, only this time it's teasing, heavy.

"Lip," I warn, still smiling. "We should probably—"

He cuts me off by kissing me, slow at first, then deeper. My fingers curl into his hair as he leans over me, chest pressed against mine, his warmth spreading through me like fire.

"Can't we just... stay here?" he murmurs against my lips.

I laugh softly. "You mean... again?"

He grins, that crooked smirk I love, and the answer is in the way his hands roam, dragging me closer, pressing me down into the mattress. The sheet falls away, heat building again as our bodies move together. I can feel every inch of him, every shiver, every gasp, and it's like we never really stopped.

Somewhere far off, I hear a floorboard creak, but it's faint, and for the moment, it doesn't matter. We sink into the quiet, tangled, messy perfection of us, letting the world wait—because mornings like this? They don't come often, and I'm not letting them pass.

Eventually, we roll into each other, bodies sticky with sweat, breathing uneven, smiles dragging across our faces. Lip presses a lazy kiss to my shoulder. "Definitely worth staying in bed."

"Absolutely," I whisper, curling into him, letting the warmth of him and the rare peace of the house carry me into the kind of morning I'll want to remember forever.