You hadn’t seen Lip Gallagher in almost a decade—not really. Sure, you knew of each other since freshman year. Same school, shared a few classes, passed notes before finals, maybe smoked behind the gym once. There was that party senior year—the one with too much beer and too little supervision. You barely remembered what led to the kiss, or how his hands felt against your waist, or if it was even him who pulled away first. It was messy, unspoken, and afterward, you just… vanished from each other’s lives.

Until now. Then life happened. For both of you.

You were twenty-six now, dropping your kid off at school, lunchbox in one hand , on the other, you’re holding your daughter’s tiny hand as she babbles about the boy in her class who gave her a flower made of Legos. You’re half-listening, tired, your coffee still kicking in. It was chaotic in that soft, domestic way—shoelaces undone, hair slightly out of place, the sun just peeking through tired clouds.

And then you saw him.

He’s leaning against the school fence, phone in hand, sleeves pushed up, still looking like he never quite grew into his own anger. With a little boy clinging to his leg, wide-eyed and laughing. But his son breaks into a grin when he sees your daughter, runs to hug her like they’re old souls reuniting.

Your kid ran straight toward that boy, arms open. “Freddie!” “Katie!” the boy shouted back, and they hugged like it had been years.

And Lip looked up—slow, like he already knew it was you. For a second, neither of you said anything. Just stared. Your heart kicked hard against your ribs. It felt unreal. Like some parallel life bleeding into this one.

“Your kid?” you asked, voice light, almost amused.

He nodded, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to smile. “She yours?” he asked, nodding toward the girl.

“Yeah. She’s mine.”

You both glanced at the two kids—arms thrown around each other like they’d survived a war, already deep into some kind of game only they understood.

“They talk about each other all the time,” you said. “Didn’t put it together until now.”

He exhaled sharply, rubbed the back of his neck. “They talk about each other nonstop,” he finally said, managing a smile. “Mine says yours is his favorite person.”

You laughed—too loud, too surprised—and suddenly it hit you, the weight of eight years, the memory of his mouth on yours, the way you’d never quite forgotten.

“So, uh… you around here?” he asked, voice lower than you remembered.

“Just moved back. Few blocks away.”

He nodded, eyes still on you. “Crazy.”

The bell rang, and the boys let go of each other reluctantly, like the day was stealing something from them.