The Gallagher house was never quiet, but tonight it had settled into that particular kind of chaos that felt almost peaceful. Dishes piled in the sink, the TV murmuring from the living room, Fiona's voice somewhere upstairs, and the scratch of pencils at the kitchen table.

Y/n sat across from Carl, a worksheet spread out between them, numbers blurring into nonsense. Lip leaned against the counter with a beer, watching them both, but his eyes were mostly on Y/n.

Lip pushed off the counter and leaned over Y/n's shoulder, tapping a line on the worksheet. The closeness was sudden, and he smelled like cigarettes and cheap beer.

The answer was obvious, but the way he asked, like he was already halfway to calling you hopeless, made it hard to think.

Meanwhile, Carl's leg bounced under the table. He kept glancing toward the window, like he was waiting for something.