The history between you and Lip was a dense, weathered tapestry of Chicago winters, South Side grit, and an attraction that had sparked in a high school hallway and refused to burn out. To the outside observer, your relationship was a constant in a neighborhood defined by instability. You had weathered the volatile storms of his family life, the chaotic breaks when the pressure became too much, and the inevitable, magnetic pulls that always brought you back to the Gallagher doorstep.

Marriage was a frequent topic among the neighborhood regulars at the Alibi, usually posed as a question of "when" rather than "if," but for the two of you, a legal document felt redundant. You were already woven into the fabric of his life, a permanent fixture in a house that was louder and more crowded than your own childhood home, yet felt infinitely more like where you belonged.

Life had finally reached a plateau of relative calm. The frantic survivalism of your younger years had given way to the steady rhythm of adulthood. You both had reliable income, a rare luxury that allowed for a sense of security you hadn't known growing up. The cramped quarters of the Gallagher house didn't feel like a limitation; they felt like a sanctuary, filled with the ghosts of old arguments and the warmth of shared meals. You had seen Lip at his absolute lowest and his most triumphant, and he had seen the same in you. You were a team, forged in fire, finally enjoying the glow of the embers.

However, the arrival of Franny changed the internal chemistry of your relationship. It wasn't a gradual shift, but a sudden, overwhelming tidal wave of biological and emotional realization.

Watching Lip with Debbie’s daughter was a revelation. It wasn't just the practiced ease with which he supported her head or the way his voice dropped an octave into a soothing, low rumble that could quiet her most frantic cries; it was the look of profound, quiet focus in his eyes. It reminded you of the way he used to care for Liam—the paternal instinct that had always lived just beneath his sharp-edged exterior—but this was different.

It was seasoned by age and a deeper understanding of what it meant to protect someone. Every time he tucked a blanket around the infant or let her tiny hand wrap around his finger, your heart didn't just ache; it yearned.

Lip was experiencing his own quiet revolution. Seeing you hold Franny, watching the soft, instinctive way you swayed to soothe her, or the light in your eyes when she finally fell asleep in your arms, sparked a vision of a future he hadn't dared to articulate. He began to see not just a partner, but the mother of his children, and the image was so vivid it made the quiet moments of your life feel like they were missing a vital piece.

One evening, the house was uncharacteristically still. You were retreated into the sanctuary of his bedroom, the only light provided by the amber glow of the streetlamp filtering through the thin curtains. You were draped across him, the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart acting as a metronome for your own breathing. The silence was heavy with everything neither of you had said out loud over the past few months.

Lip’s hand traced absent-minded patterns on your shoulder, his movements slow and contemplative. He cleared his throat, the sound vibrating against your cheek where it rested on his chest.

“You want one?” he asked. The question was whispered, almost tentative, cutting through the darkness with a weight that shifted the entire trajectory of your shared future. He didn't need to specify what "one" meant; the air in the room was already thick with the answer.

ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪɪᴄᴀss!!!