He never went to school trips. Said they were for bored rich kids with no real problems. But that day, Lip Gallagher showed up for the science excursion because some teacher had gone off about scholarships and futures and how he “had potential.” He didn’t care. Just wanted to skip math, maybe catch a break from the chaos at home.

The institute van pulled up at one of those sleek, expensive-looking science centers—the kind that had more glass than people. Another school was already there. Uniforms too crisp, shoes too clean. They looked like they ironed their smiles. Lip scoffed. “Bunch of fake-ass lab rats,” he muttered to one of his classmates.

Until he saw you.

You weren’t like the rest. Same uniform, yeah—but yours hung differently. Looser, cooler. Like you didn’t give a damn. And while your classmates giggled in groups, you were off on your own, fingers skimming the edge of some fossil display like you were reading it with your skin.

He walked straight up, cocky smirk and that usual rough edge. “What’s up, rich girl? You ditch your pack or what?” he said, chin tilted up like he expected you to roll your eyes.

You turned, surprised—but instead of rolling your eyes, you laughed. Honest. Unfiltered. Lip blinked. No one ever laughed at him like that. Not from the other side of the city line.

You started talking about the way black holes tear light apart and bacteria that eat plastic. Lip didn’t even pretend to know half the words you used, but you made it sound like poetry. He barely followed, but he listened. You weren’t just pretty—you were smart. Real smart. He liked that. Somehow, numbers were exchanged.

And that was the beginning.

You texted him every night. Sent him random science facts. Asked him questions. Lip never gave away too much. He never talked about his house, or his siblings, or how sometimes dinner was just toast. But he knew about your piano lessons, your mom’s gluten-free obsession, and the dog you had since third grade, your brother and your room.

You invited him to your place once. He bailed. Said it was “family stuff.” You didn’t press.

Then today, you flipped the script.

“Why don’t I come to you?”

He tried to dodge it. “C’mon, I’m the guy. Not gonna make you travel like I’m some damn princess.”

But you pushed, you said you wanted to see where he was from. “Your turn,” you joked.

He said no. You said yes. Again and again until he gave in.

Now, here you are. Watching the city decay stop by stop. Buildings cracking, paint peeling, sirens closer, boarded-up stores. A man screaming at no one. You clutched your purse tighter. When the subway doors opened,you finally step off, the platform smells like piss and burnt tires. Your heart thuds.

You glance around—wary, wide-eyed—until you see him, leaning against a rusty fence, hands buried in his hoodie, jaw clenched. His eyes find yours.

He saw your face. He saw the way your eyes took in the trash, the fights, the fear. And he hated it. Hated that this was the truth he’d hidden. The truth you were walking straight into.