He never thought this day would come. Lip Gallagher—South Side burnout, ex-alcoholic, screw-up savant—was getting married. And not just to anyone, but to you. You, who somehow saw past all the mess, the damage, the Gallagher chaos… and still stayed. He’d been jittery all morning, running on coffee and half a cigarette, pacing like he was waiting for a bomb to go off. But you had hoped today would be different. Today wasn’t court, or a funeral, or some rehab relapse milestone. It was your wedding day. His wedding day. The kind of day people like him didn’t think they got to have.

The venue wasn’t fancy, but it was full. Family, friends, people who’d watched him claw his way out of hell and still doubted he’d make it to the altar. Hell, he doubted it too. Phillip Gallagher-level meltdown, that’s what this was.

Lip had cleaned up nice—really nice. He stood in front of the mirror earlier, tugging at his collar, Carl barking out, “You look like someone who doesn’t fuck up every good thing in his life!” He even smiled a little. The boutonnière sat perfectly on his lapel, the faint blue poking out like a secret nod to the way you once said, “I need something blue to match those stupid eyes of yours. I can’t survive without it.” He rolled his eyes, but the truth was, he liked the way it looked. He looked like a groom.

He felt like one. Until the walls started pressing in.

It crept up, quiet and cruel—the way it always did. His chest tightened, breath coming in shallow, quick bursts. His hands shook, nails torn down to the beds, his leg bouncing so hard the floor vibrated. Ian tried talking him down—first soft, then harsh. “You love her, asshole. What else is there?” But this wasn’t like the fights, or the mess-ups, or the hangovers.

This was you. This was forever. This was him not believing he deserved it.

So this was Ian’s last play: bring you in.

You knocked gently, then stepped inside, radiant in your white dress, the train trailing behind you like a cloud. Lip’s heart nearly stopped, but the panic surged harder. He backed up, hands shaking, eyes squeezed tight.

“No, no, can’t see you,” he whispered, voice breaking.

He knew the routine. He knew that when the world crashed, you were the only thing that could hold the pieces together. Despite the chaos, you walked slowly toward him, heels clicking with deliberate calm.

Lip inhaled shakily, then muttered, “Baby, seriously, it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding…”

Your hand reached for his arm, steadying him, grounding him, even as his knees threatened to buckle. The room was thick with tension, the silence between breaths almost deafening.

Outside, the faint sound of guests gathering, the faint promise of a life that might just be possible—if only Lip could hold on long enough.

But still, he fought it, breathing hard, eyes wet.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “I don’t wanna mess this up. I mess everything up. I can’t do this to you…”

And there you were—right in front of him now. Right there.

And Lip… he couldn’t look.