You and Lip Gallagher had grown up on the same cracked pavement of the South Side—best friends before you even knew what that meant. The kind of bond built on scraped knees, secret hideouts, and yelling over who got the last slice of pizza. Life was messy, but you always had each other. Until you showed up on his porch at fifteen, crying, with a pregnancy test shoved in your hoodie pocket and no idea what to do next.

He’d lost it. “Are you serious?” he’d shouted, pacing like a caged dog. “You don’t even know the guy. How the hell do you not use anything?” But even then, behind all that yelling, you saw it—fear. For you. For what your life was about to become.

And when he didn’t show at the clinic, didn’t call… you figured that was it. That you’d wrecked everything. But two months later, he was at your door, bag of gummy worms in hand. “I’m still mad,” he’d said. “But you’re not doing this alone.”

Now you were both twenty . Your son was five, off at soccer practice down the block. And you were across from Lip in a diner that smelled like burnt toast and old coffee, your finger tracing circles on your mug while he destroyed a packet of sugar like it owed him money.

He looked at you over his cup. “You look like hell.”

You snorted. “Motherhood. It’s real glamorous.”

He smiled, but it didn’t last. “He called me Lee again this morning.”

You froze a second. “Yeah… he just started doing that. I didn’t teach him.” “I know,” Lip said, quieter. “Didn’t say you did.”

There was a silence that pressed against your ribs. So many things neither of you dared say out loud. Like how he came to every parent-teacher meeting without being asked. Like how your kid had started copying the way Lip laced his shoes. Like how the three of you almost looked like something real.

You took a breath. “You could’ve walked away.”

He stared into his cup. “I almost did.” Then he looked up. “But I couldn’t. I remembered who you were before this—before everything. I wasn’t gonna let you drown.”

You glanced at your phone—new photo. Your son grinning, dirt on his chin, eyes wild with joy. You turned the screen so Lip could see.

“He’s gonna break hearts,” he muttered, half smiling. You laughed, but it came out softer. “Yeah. He already kinda has.”

Outside, your kid tripped mid-run and hit the ground crying. You both flinched, instinct rising in your chest.

“I got him,” Lip said, already on his feet.

You watched him go—Lip, the boy who used to dare you to steal cigarettes, now scooping up your son with steady hands. You blinked hard. Something ached behind your ribs.

Then he came back and sat on the couch of the café with ur son in his lap.