Lip is sprawled on the couch in just his boxers, shirtless, a half-empty bottle of whiskey hanging from one hand, eyes glazed and red-rimmed. He doesn’t even flinch when you walk in.

You drop your bag by the door. “Jesus, Lip.”

He mutters, “Thought I locked that.”

You walk toward him. “You didn’t. Or maybe you did and just forgot—along with your midterms, your friends, and the part where you’re supposed to give a damn.”

He takes a sip, still not looking at you. “Didn’t ask you to come.”

“Too bad. I’m your best friend, remember? That used to mean something before you decided whiskey was a better companion.”

He glances at you, his eyes heavy. “You’re still throwing that ‘best friend’ title around like it means you’re stuck cleaning up my messes.”

“I’m not cleaning up anything, Lip. I came here because you’ve been MIA for three weeks, and I thought I’d find you in a ditch.”

He leans back. “Well, congrats. You found me. Not dead. Just failing.”

“Don’t do that,” you snap. “You care so much it eats you alive. And instead of talking to me, you drown it.”

“I’m not drowning,” he mutters. “I’m just tired. Of pretending I belong here. Of faking it like I’m one screw-up away from burning everything down.”

You kneel in front of him, grabbing the bottle. He doesn’t resist, but his eyes flick to yours.

“I’ve been there through everything,” you say quietly. “When your mom disappeared, when Fiona dropped out, when Mandy left. And now here, watching you try to destroy the one good thing you’ve built.”

Lip’s breathing hard. “You don’t get it.”

“No,” you say. “You just won’t let me.”

He looks at you, searching for something familiar. “Why are you still here?”

You swallow. “Because you’re my best friend, Lip. Even when you’re wrecked. But I’m not going to keep watching you destroy yourself.”

He stares at you, something in his expression cracking. “I don’t know who I am without all the mess.”

You say nothing, just sit beside the couch, close enough for him to feel you still there. Not saving him. Not fixing him.