Chicago, 2011

Lockers slammed shut like gunfire down the hall, the early morning chaos of North Side High already in full swing. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow across tired faces and half-done homework.

Lip Gallagher leaned against your locker, hoodie halfway zipped, earbuds dangling from his neck like he couldn’t decide if he cared about music or math more that day. He saw you before you saw him — you were slow coming down the hallway, one hand bracing the small of your back, your other gripping the strap of a too-heavy backpack.

Your bump was barely visible under your sweater, just a subtle curve that Lip swore only he noticed — but that didn’t stop the occasional sideways glance from teachers, or the way some girls whispered behind cheap lip gloss and bitten nails.

“Hey,” he said, straightening up and pulling the bag from your shoulder before you could argue. “You should stop carrying this crap. You’re not exactly not pregnant, y’know.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing hair out of your face. “It’s Algebra II, Lip. My uterus doesn’t cancel out finals.”

“Could try,” he muttered, half-joking, half-wishing he could punch every teacher who gave you a hard time.

He followed you to class, not bothering to go to his own. Again. You sat in the back — always — where you didn’t have to answer questions or catch too much attention. Lip sat beside you, feet kicked up on the seat in front of him until the teacher gave him the usual “Gallagher, seriously?” glare.

You leaned over, whispering, “You’re supposed to be in chem.”

“Got you and the baby,” he whispered back, tapping two fingers gently against your stomach. “Science enough for me.”

Despite the smirk, you could see the worry flicker behind his eyes — the quiet math he was always doing in his head now had one more variable. Rent, diapers, food, GEDs. Maybe college. Maybe not.

By lunch, you were exhausted. Lip stole you half a bagel and an orange juice from the cafeteria line — “growing baby tax,” he called it — and pulled you out into the quad where the cold wind couldn’t reach under the concrete stairwell.

You sat side by side on the curb, chewing in silence until he broke it.

“So,” he said slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I got a job offer. Well, more like a favor. My buddy’s cousin needs help with HVAC installs. It's shit pay, but it’s… y’know. Pay.”

You looked over at him, surprised. “You’d do that?”

“For you?” he said, eyes locked on yours. “Yeah. For you and the kid? I’d do anything.”

You smile softly and turn back to eating, both sitting in silence.

Lip Gallagher wasn’t perfect — he never claimed to be. He’d ditch class, punch a guy who looked at you sideways, and forget what day of the week it was half the time. But when it came to you — and this baby that neither of you had planned for — he showed up.

And in the middle of cracked sidewalks, vending machines that ate dollars, and teachers who didn’t care if you graduated or dropped out — Lip Gallagher did care.

And that counted for something.