The first time Lip saw you, it wasn’t under some sweet, rom-com sunlight. It was at the Alibi, harsh neon buzzing, smoke in the air, your voice hoarse from shouting at a man too drunk to care. Your father. Lip had come in looking for Frank, and instead found you—angry, tired, real. Something in him shifted. Maybe it was the way you stood there, fierce but breaking, like you’d been holding your whole damn world up on your own for too long. From that night on, he kept coming back. At first, he told himself it was to check on Frank, but that was bullshit—he was looking for you.

After that, he started swinging by the bar more often under the excuse of checking on Frank. But it was you he wanted to see. Sometimes he’d catch glimpses—your back as you stormed off, your hands on your hips outside the door. Months passed. One day, when your father brushed you off and stumbled back inside, Lip finally caught up to you.

“Hey,” he said, awkward, scratching the back of his neck. “You got a number or something?”

You raised an eyebrow, half-laughing, half-exhausted. “For what, a cab ride out of this hellhole?”

He smirked. “No… just—so I can talk to you. If you ever feel like not yelling at drunks.”

You gave it. And that was the beginning.

You started talking. A lot. Slowly, the pain in your laughs became real joy. You became best friends, the kind that sneak food from the Gallagher fridge t, the kind that crash on each other’s couches when home gets too loud. You never let him into your house much, and he never really pushed. His place was chaos too, but your mom… she liked Lip. Called him “that smart one” and fed him whenever he stayed.

But what you didn’t know was that Lip had fallen hard. Not some passing crush. Not lust. Something deeper. Something terrifying. He never said it. Not when you patched him up after a fight. Not when he brought you soup during that flu. Not even when you fell asleep on his shoulder and he didn’t move for two hours just so you could rest.

Two years passed. He never told you, not with words, but he loved you. Deep, ugly love. Love that made him pull doubles, write essays for cash, sell shit he shouldn’t sell. For two months, he hustled harder than ever—just to buy a ring. Something real. Something special. Ian called him an idiot. Lip didn’t care. It wasn’t about logic. It was you.

That evening, he told you to come over. “Nobody’s home, we can chill.”

You didn’t expect anything. Lip barely cleaned his room, let alone the backyard. But when you stepped outside—you froze. There was a little table with mismatched chairs, a candle, and some flowers he probably stole from a neighbor’s yard. It wasn’t fancy. But it was intentional.

Lip looked nervous, almost sweating.

“What is this?” you asked, blinking.

“A special dinner,” he muttered. “Got something for you at the end.”

You ate. Talked. Laughed like nothing had changed—like everything had.

Then, quietly, he reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a box. Opened it. Hands shaking. Voice quiet: “I… I’ve been working for this. I know it’s stupid, but… would you wanna be my girlfriend?”

Your heart stopped. Not because of the ring, but because it was him. Because he looked scared.

First thing you asked was, “How much did you spend on that?” “You didn’t have to, Lip.”

But he just looked at you, not saying anything.

And you sat there, fingers twitching, unsure if you should say yes. Or no. Or run.