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You hadn’t seen Lip in months—not really. You both knew it wasn’t a clean break; you were the only one who ever managed to calm the storm inside him. His addictions, his anger, the fear that clawed at him—he let you in like no one else could. But that night… that night he crossed a line. The words he spat out were sharp, cruel, and then, almost worse, his hand came up. It wasn’t who he was, but it was the worst he’d ever shown. So you walked away.

After that, things fell apart fast. The Lip everyone knew started drinking like it was his last breath. The university kicked him out over that mess with the professor. He spiraled. Smoke always curled from his lips; bottles never left his side. Two days, no one knew where he was. When he finally stumbled back to the Gallagher house, Ian and the others kept you updated, their worried voices on the phone. . You tried to stay away, but Ian kept you updated, sometimes even Fiona. “He’s bad,” they’d say. “Worse than ever.”

Then, the call came.

“Can you come?” Ian’s voice, strained. “He won’t let us in.”

You didn’t think, just went.

You opened the door to Lip’s place, and he was a wreck—eyes bloodshot, clothes crumpled, voice laced with bitterness and pain. He snarled at you, “What the fuck are you doing here? You think you’re some kind of savior?” But you didn’t flinch. You stepped inside and wrapped your arms around him. For a moment, the noise inside him quieted.

Days passed in a blur of movie nights, soft talks, and silent moments where no one needed to say anything. You kept him distracted, pushed him away from the bottle. The first AA meeting was rough—he hated it, but he went. Then another. Then a whole month without a drink.

Tonight, you waited in the car, the night thick and quiet. The door creaked open. He came out smiling like a kid who just aced a test. Holding a small coin, his “achievement,” he approached you, shy but proud, but with a spark in his eyes you hadn’t seen in a long time. His grin was goofy, proud.

He pulled something from his pocket—a small, worn coin. “Look at this,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “They gave me this… a month sober.”

You smiled back, heart heavy but hopeful.

He got in. Still grinning, tossing the coin up and catching it like it was gold.

“Wanna go to dinner?” you asked. Quiet. Not a date. Not not a date.

He looked at you—eyes clearer than you remembered, lips twitching like he might cry or kiss you or both.

“Yeah,” he said, barely above a whisper.

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