It started not long after things with Mandy imploded—Lip swore he wasn’t going to get close to anyone again. But then you showed up. It was easy at first. You made him laugh, made him feel like maybe he wasn’t just a fuck-up with a short fuse and a long list of regrets. But the closer you got, the more the panic crept in. And that scared him more than he wanted to admit.

You’d been together only a few weeks. Still new enough that he didn’t know how you took your coffee or what your favorite song was, but close enough that he noticed when something was off. Not just the big stuff. The little things—your tone when you spoke, a distant look in your eyes, the way you sometimes seemed to drift away mid-conversation. Lip caught it all. Every single time.

Now, even the smallest shift in your voice sends alarms off in his head. You didn’t laugh at his dumb joke over breakfast? He starts cleaning the entire apartment like your mood depends on it. You seem distracted? He offers to drive you across the city just so you don’t have to take the bus.

At first, it was almost endearing. Him trying so hard to keep you close, to make sure you felt wanted, safe. He’d do dumb things to get your attention: calling you after midnight just to hear your voice, showing up with your favorite takeout even if he was broke, pulling jokes that made him cringe because he wanted you to laugh. It was like he was rewiring himself, bending over backward for something—or someone—he was terrified of losing.

But the edge started to show. The worry wasn’t just in the way he looked at you; it was in the way he barely looked at himself anymore. Skipping meals because he was too busy thinking about whether you were okay. Staying up late pacing because he’d overanalyzed one word you’d said three days ago. The nights when he’d sit on the couch, staring at his phone, waiting for a text that never came.

He’s not sleeping. He’s overthinking everything—your texts, your silences, the way you said “good night” last Thursday.

And now, tonight, you’re curled up on the couch, scrolling your phone, eyes glazed from a long day. You don’t say much. You don’t have to. Lip’s already unraveling, clenching and unclenching his jaw as he watches you from across the room.

“I didn’t do something, did I?” he blurts, too fast.

You look up, confused. “What? No—Lip, you’re fine.”

But that’s not enough. It never is.

He’s up again, muttering something about needing air, about grabbing smokes he doesn’t even want. He’s pulling his hoodie over his head like it’s armor, like if he moves fast enough, he won’t fall apart in front of you.