Lip sat on the windowsill, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, the tip burning slow. His old flip phone buzzed in his other hand, lighting up the dim room with your name. He exhaled, watching the smoke curl into the air before pressing the button.

“Yeah?”

“You busy?” Your voice came through, a little rough, like you’d been out all night. Probably had. Probably with people he didn’t like.

Lip ran his tongue over his teeth, debating whether to call you out or let it slide. “What’s up?”

Silence. A long one. Then a breath, shaky but masked with a laugh. “Nothin’. Just… needed to hear a familiar voice, I guess.”

Lip closed his eyes, pressing the bridge of his nose. He knew you better than anyone. He knew when you were lying. When you were in trouble. When you needed help but refused to ask for it.

“You okay?” The words felt foreign leaving his mouth, like he wasn’t the kind of guy who said them. Because he wasn’t. Not out loud, anyway.

You sighed. “Yeah.” A pause. “No.” Another pause. “Fuck, I don’t know.”

Lip flicked his cigarette ash onto the floor. He hated this. Hated how much he cared. Hated that after all these years, he still couldn’t figure out how to fix you—how to fix either of you.

“I’ll come get you,” he muttered, already pushing himself off the windowsill.

You let out a dry laugh. “You don’t even know where I am.”

Lip grabbed his jacket. “Yeah, I do.”

And he did. Because he always knew.