14

The morning kicks off with chaos, as usual.

I step into the kitchen and immediately freeze.

Lucas is standing on the counter like he's about to leap off it. Conner is on the floor in his pajamas, scooping up spilled Fruity Pebbles with both hands and shoving them into his mouth.

"What the actual hell are you two doing?"

Lucas grins like he's proud. "Looking for marshmallows."

"In the cereal?"

"In the cabinet. I knocked it over by accident. Then Conner dared me to jump into it."

"I didn't think he'd actually do it," Conner says through a mouthful of rainbow sugar.

Lip strolls in shirtless, hair a mess, blinking like he hasn't woken up yet. He looks around the room, then at me. "What the fuck did I just walk into?"

I sigh, stepping over a puddle of milk. "You ever regret not sleeping in?"

"Not once," he says with a smirk, grabbing a piece of toast like this is normal.

Lucas hops down and wipes his sticky hands on my shirt. "Can we have waffles now?"

"You're grounded from breakfast."

"That's child abuse," Conner protests.

"You guys aren't children. You're demons."

Lip leans against the fridge. "Honestly, kinda impressive. Most cereal-related disasters don't go full war zone this early."

I glare at him. "You wanna help?"

He just grins. "Nah. I like watching you threaten minors."

⸻

A little later, the four of us head over to the Gallagher house. Carl promised to let Conner and Lucas help him test out a homemade smoke bomb, and the boys nearly tackled him when they saw the lighter in his hand. I didn't ask questions. I'm not strong enough yet.

Inside, it's classic Gallagher: couch cushions on the floor, music playing from a speaker that only works if you hold it sideways, and Frank passed out in the corner hugging a jug of something I pray is just beer.

Lip barely glances at him. "Still alive."

"Barely," I mutter.

Fiona walks in from the kitchen and immediately locks eyes on Lip.

"Oh, look who showed up," she says, wiping her hands on a rag.

Lip sighs. "What now?"

"You've practically moved in with Erin," she says sharply. "You're here, what—twice a week now?"

He tenses beside me. "So?"

"So we still have shit happening here. Ian's sneaking out again, Carl nearly lit Debbie's homework on fire, and Frank's been pissing in the sink."

Lip shrugs. "And? You got it handled."

"I always get it handled, Lip. That's not the point."

He tilts his head. "Then what is?"

"The point is, you're not just some guy with a girlfriend. You're a Gallagher. You're a brother. And lately, you've been acting like you're too good for the rest of us."

The silence that follows is sharp.

"I'm not too good," Lip says quietly. "I'm just fucking tired."

I reach for his hand but don't say anything. This isn't my place.

Fiona backs off, but not all the way. "Whatever. Just don't forget who actually needs you."

She walks out, and we step onto the back porch, the screen door creaking behind us.

⸻

Lip lights a cigarette and stares at the backyard, silent for a second. Then: "She thinks I'm bailing."

"You're not," I say.

"I'm trying to pick a place that doesn't crush me the second I walk in the door."

I nod. "I get it. You don't have to explain it."

He flicks ash toward the lawn. "I want to, though. To you."

My throat tightens a little.

He turns to me. "It's not just about getting away. It's about what it feels like when I'm at your place. Like I can fucking breathe. Like I'm not failing at something every second."

"I don't need you to fix anything," I say softly. "I just want you around."

He looks at me for a long moment, like he's weighing something. Then, in true Lip fashion, he mutters, "So are we... I don't know, doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"You and me. Official. Like, if some other guy flirts with you, I get to punch him and not feel like a psycho."

I smirk. "You'd punch him either way."

"Yeah," he says. "But now I'll have a reason."

I reach over and grab his cigarette, take a drag, and hand it back. "Yeah. We're doing this."

He grins, all smug and soft. "Cool."

⸻

We get back to my place, and the boys are still with Carl—probably somewhere between lighting garbage on fire and starting a neighborhood turf war. It's the perfect amount of time to be bad.

As soon as we're inside, Lip grabs me by the waist and presses me against the wall, mouth on mine like he's starving.

"You looked so hot threatening your brothers earlier," he mumbles, lips trailing down my neck.

"Do not turn my cereal trauma into foreplay."

"Too late."

He lifts me easily, carrying me into the bathroom while kissing me like he owns me. The door swings shut behind us, and clothes hit the floor like an avalanche.

The shower turns on, steam curling up the walls. He presses me against the cold tile, body hot and solid against mine. His fingers slide down, teasing me until I'm gasping.

Then he's inside me, slow but deep, and everything melts away. My legs wrap around his waist, his hands gripping my thighs tight, his mouth buried in the crook of my neck.

He thrusts hard, desperate, and I match him, nails digging into his back.

"Fuck," he groans. "I could stay like this forever."

I kiss him, fast and messy, and he drives into me again, until the steam fogs the mirrors and we're coming undone together, breathless and tangled.

⸻

We're drying off when the front door bursts open.

"ERIN!" Conner shouts from the hallway. "LUCAS PUT A FROG IN HIS POCKET AND NOW IT'S DEAD!"

Lucas yells behind him, "HE NEEDED A FRIEND!"

"Oh my God," I groan, wrapping my towel tighter. "Why is it always something alive?"

Lip's shoulders are shaking from laughing. "They're insane."

"They're your fault for encouraging Carl."

Lucas appears in the doorway, proudly holding out a soggy jean pocket. "We're gonna bury him in the backyard with Carl's lighter!"

"That feels illegal," Lip mutters.

I look at him, towel half on, hair soaked, and smile. "Still glad you're official now?"

He grins back. "More than ever."

And despite the chaos—the frogs, the cereal, the fire hazards—we're exactly where we're supposed to be.

Together.

The second Carl offered to let Conner and Lucas stay the night, I should've known they'd leap at it like it was Disneyland. By the time I finish saying, "Are you sure—" both of them are already halfway down the street, backpacks swinging, yelling something about stink bombs and firecrackers.

"They're gonna come back missing eyebrows," I mutter.

"Or teeth," Lip adds. "Or morals."

I sigh, shutting the front door behind me. "I should've said no."

"You didn't." He shrugs off his hoodie and flops onto my couch. "Which means now we've got a house to ourselves."

I raise an eyebrow. "What are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting," he says, digging around in his backpack, "that we take this"—he pulls out a bottle of shitty whiskey—"and drink until you forget your name."

I smirk. "You know I'm not great at drinking."

"Good," he grins. "That makes it more fun."

⸻

An hour later, the bottle's a third gone, we're both stretched out on the floor, and the TV's playing something we stopped paying attention to twenty minutes ago.

"I'm serious," I say through laughter. "If I had to pick between you and the last donut on Earth, I'd choose the donut."

Lip mock gasps. "That's betrayal."

"Donuts are loyal. Donuts don't disappear for three days without answering texts."

He throws a pillow at me. "I told you I was dealing with shit."

"Still," I grin, sipping from my cup. "Donuts never lie."

"Donuts also don't do this," he mutters—and then he rolls on top of me, mouth finding mine in one smooth, dizzying motion.

I laugh against his lips. "You're using sex to win an argument."

"It's working, isn't it?"

"Unfortunately."

We end up on the floor for a while, tangled up in each other, his hands under my shirt, my fingers in his hair. It's easy with him. Always has been. Even when everything else feels like it's falling apart.

Eventually, we pull apart just long enough to breathe, and I say, "Wanna go out? Walk off the drunk?"

"Depends," he says. "Are you gonna keep choosing donuts over me?"

I stand, wobble slightly, and grab my hoodie. "Depends if you buy me one."

⸻

It's late and the streets are mostly empty—just a few sketchy-looking guys and that one angry raccoon that lives near the corner store. We walk side by side, bumping shoulders every few steps, trading insults and stolen sips from the whiskey bottle Lip smuggled into his coat pocket.

And then—because of course—the universe hates me.

"Lip?"

I freeze. Lip stiffens beside me.

I turn and see her standing by the bus stop, arms crossed, mouth already curled into something between a smirk and a snarl.

Karen.

Of course.

Her hair's longer, straighter. She's wearing lipstick that probably cost more than my groceries for the week. But her eyes flick between me and Lip like she just walked in on a joke she wasn't invited to.

"Well," she says, slow and fake sweet. "Didn't expect to see you two."

Lip's jaw ticks. "Didn't expect to see you either."

Karen's gaze lands on me. "You're Erin, right?"

I nod, not blinking. "That's me."

"I heard about you." Her smile is tight. "From school. And other places."

"Oh?" I cock my head. "What exactly did you hear?"

"Nothing important," she shrugs. "Just that you've been keeping Lip very... busy."

Lip shifts beside me. "Don't start."

"I'm not starting," she says innocently. "I just think it's cute. You and your little charity project."

I take a step forward. "You wanna say that again?"

Karen's eyes narrow, but she's still smiling. "Look, I get it. It's fun, playing house. But we all know how this ends."

"Yeah," I say, stepping right into her space. "It ends with you still alone at a bus stop while he's walking home with me."

Her smile drops for half a second, then comes back meaner. "You're not special, Erin. You're just next."

Before I can even process what I'm doing, Lip's arm wraps around my waist and pulls me back, gently but firm. "She's not next," he says quietly, looking Karen straight in the eye. "She's it."

Karen looks like she's about to spit something out, but the bus finally hisses up to the curb.

She turns without another word and climbs on, head held high, but shoulders tight.

I exhale hard. "Okay. That was... fun."

Lip's mouth curls into a smug, dangerous smile. "You handled that better than I would've."

"Yeah?"

"I was two seconds from throwing your shoe at her."

I snort. "Would've been a waste of a good shoe."

He grabs my hand, threads his fingers through mine like it's easy, natural. "She's full of shit, by the way."

"I know."

"She was always chaos. You're—different."

I glance at him. "You really think that?"

He leans in, lips brushing my ear. "I know that."

And just like that, all the Karen-shaped noise in my chest disappears. Because even drunk and bitter and limping our way home in the dark, this thing between us still feels like the most honest part of my whole damn life.