It started simple, almost nothing. Your group had been the same since forever, kids who grew up on the same cracked sidewalks of the South Side. Eight, nine of you—normal, not too big, not too small. Marco, Katie, Chloe, Margot, Cameron, Jacob, Marlon, Antuan, and you. That was the rhythm of it: summers in August heat, nights wasted in the same corner, same bars, same jokes.

Then Marco showed up with a stranger. A boy with sharp blue eyes and a restless energy, like he couldn’t stay still even when he was sitting down. Lip. Marco said he had “some problems,” didn’t go into details, just that Lip needed a place to land. And your group let him.

The first day, Lip hung back, awkward in that way people are when they don’t know the rules yet. But it didn’t last long. Soon he was buzzing, throwing lines, messing with everyone. Teasing Chloe, nudging Katie, giving Margot shit. Always toeing the line between charming and annoying. But not with you. That first day, he didn’t touch you, didn’t tease. It was almost like he was saving it.

By the second day, he did. Same routine as with the others, but heavier, like he’d decided you were the one worth pulling into his orbit. And slowly, over the next two weeks, it shifted. He stopped bothering the other girls and focused all his attention on you. Always the seat next to yours. Always the side comments. Always the leaning too close, brushing his hand against you like it was a joke. Everyone saw it. That stupid smirk from Cameron, the way Chloe mouthed are you two gonna kiss or what? You denied it, laughed it off, but it stuck.

And then those walks home. Just you and him, the noise of the group behind you fading. That’s when you saw him different—less loud, less reckless. He’d talk about real shit, his family, his frustrations, sometimes nothing at all, just silence that didn’t feel uncomfortable. And that’s when you started to like him. Not in some big love-story way, but enough. Enough to feel it when his shoulder leaned into yours, when he pushed too far and you let him.

You told Marco. You told a couple of the others too, half embarrassed, half excited. Marco even asked Lip about it, subtle, just checking. Lip said yes. At least that’s what Marco told you at first.

But then came the party. Music too loud, smoke clinging to the air, everyone spilling beers and secrets. And Marco asked again. Lip shrugged, said no this time. Worse than no—he threw in a line that burned when it reached you. That you were just “a pretty face, but your body didn’t do it for him.” That he’d never hook up with you, that you’d stay just a friend.

You didn’t hear it from him. You heard it from Chloe, who pulled you aside, eyes sharp and protective and guilty all at once. And the floor dropped out. Because all the teasing, all the touching, all the late-night walks—it hadn’t been in your head. He had been giving you something. But to turn around and cut you down like that? To make you feel like you’d been stupid for believing him? It gutted you.

The rest of the night you shut him out. He joked, nudged, tried to keep the same banter alive. You didn’t play along. You drifted toward other people, forced yourself to laugh too loud at other jokes. He noticed. Confusion, irritation flickered across his face.

And later, when you were already drunk enough for the world to blur, you ended up on the stairs outside. Cigarette between your fingers, smoke curling up like it wanted to disappear. You sat there, stomach twisting with humiliation and the kind of sadness that doesn’t even feel sharp anymore—just heavy.

Then footsteps. Lip. He stood behind you first, then lowered himself down beside you. Close but not touching.

“Hey,” Lip said. His voice was different—low, stripped of the cocky rhythm he carried around the others. “What’s wrong with you? You’ve been… off all night.”

He crouched down, elbows on his knees, head tilted like he was actually trying to see you, not just waiting for the punchline. You didn’t look at him. The joint burned uneven in your hand.