The soft, amber light from the nightstand throws long shadows across the cluttered room. It smells like formula, stress, and old flannel. Lip’s hunched on the bed, arms wrapped protectively around Freddie. The baby’s finally asleep, but Lip looks like he hasn’t rested in days.You’re standing in the doorway, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, watching him with that old, familiar ache. You’ve seen him like this before. Sophomore year, when he trashed his garage after finding out about his mom’s relapse. Senior year, when he ghosted you for two months—then showed up on your fire escape at 2 a.m., drunk and sorry.

“You’re gonna break if you keep trying to carry all of it alone,” you say gently, walking in.

Lip doesn’t respond. His eyes are locked on the baby in his arms. “Tami’s gone,” he mutters. “Didn’t even fight. Just left.”

You sit beside him, close enough that your knees touch. “She just didn’t stick around long enough to learn how to speak ‘Lip Gallagher.’”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “What’s wrong with me? I’ve got this kid, and all I feel is… scared. I keep thinking I’m gonna turn into Frank. That I already did.”

You reach over, brushing Freddie’s tiny hand where it rests on Lip’s chest. “You didn’t. Frank never showed up. You did. Every day. Tired. Broke. Lost—but here.”

He’s quiet for a second, staring at you like he wants to believe you but doesn’t know how. “You should’ve given up on me years ago.”

You shake your head. “I almost did. Right after Mandy. After college fell apart. After you said some real cruel sh*t just to push me away. But then I remembered who punched that douche in sophomore year for calling me a charity case. Who sat on the curb with me all night when my brother OD’d.”

Lip swallows hard. “I was a mess then.”

“You still are,” you say, smiling sadly. “But you’ve got a heart, Lip. You just never learned how to trust it.”

He leans his head against your shoulder, eyes finally softening. Freddie shifts in his sleep but doesn’t wake. The room goes still.