It had always been you and Lip. From the cracked sidewalks of the South Side to the broken glass and busted knuckles, you were the constants in each other’s chaos. Ever since your mom died when you were eight and he sat beside you at the funeral in that too-big shirt, not saying anything, just holding your hand—he’d been there. And when he nearly dropped out after that blowout with Fiona, when he said maybe he wasn’t cut out for college, it was you who didn’t try to change his mind or fix him. Just sat on the Gallagher porch, handed him a beer, and said, “Then don’t.”

Now you were both eighteen, last year of high school, the kind of hot June day that felt like it was melting the hours off the clock. You’d both ditched school—senioritis and the weight of too many expectations hanging heavy. Lip had muttered something about the lake near the old train tracks, the one no one ever really went to unless they were drunk, in love, or trying to forget something. Maybe you were all three.

There wasn’t anyone around when you got there. Just the sound of cicadas and that lazy ripple of water against the shore. You didn’t bring swimsuits, but that didn’t stop either of you. You stripped to your underwear without a second thought, same way you’d changed clothes in front of each other since you were kids—no shame, no meaning. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Now, you were in the lake, laughing as you flung yourself into the water again, droplets catching the sun like sparks. Lip stood at the edge, shirt already off, fingers undoing his belt with that smirk you hated because it always made your stomach twist.

“You coming in or just gonna stare?” you teased, treading water.

He rolled his eyes, that lazy half-smile creeping in. “I’m tryin’ not to flash a family of ducks, alright?”

You laughed, loud and unfiltered. Lip’s hands moved to his belt. He stepped out of his jeans and hesitated, looking at you—not shy, not quite.

“It better not be freezing,” he called out, smirking as he kicked off his jeans.

You splashed toward him. “Only way to survive the South Side summer, Gallagher. Quit being a baby.”

He hesitated for a second, that Lip look—half amused, half like the world was too much—and then dropped his pants. His boxers clung to his hips, and he waded in slow, watching you the whole time.

“Didn’t think you’d still come,” you said, quieter now.

He blinked at you, the sun turning his wet lashes gold. “Didn’t think I had to say yes. It’s you.”