No amount of cigarettes could calm Lip Gallagher after the bomb Claire had just dropped on him.

They’d hooked up back in high school, during one of those chaotic house parties where half the school showed up and nobody remembered how the night ended. Claire was just a blur from the past—sharp eyeliner, leather jacket, probably somebody’s cousin. They hooked up in the bathroom, then again in a friend’s basement a few weeks later. Nothing serious. No texts, no labels. Just two reckless kids trying to forget how broken everything felt.

After those years, Lip got wrapped up in Fiona’s mess, Ian’s breakdowns, and college—briefly. He thought he was getting out, thought he’d made it. But college didn’t work out. Alcohol, fights, bad grades. Expelled. He came back to the South Side pissed off and ashamed, just another Gallagher fuck-up.

Then Claire showed up. Six fucking years later.

She didn’t say much—just handed him a piece of paper and stood there, waiting. It was a paternity test. A kid. His. Six years old. She said she didn’t tell him because he “had too much going on.” Lip didn’t even remember half of what happened that year, let alone the last time he’d seen her. But the test was clear.

Now the kid—his kid—was sitting at the Gallagher kitchen table, swinging his legs and hugging a little plushie dog nervously. Lip stood in the doorway, arms crossed, staring like the answer might crawl out of the woodwork and explain everything.

He’d taken the test three times. Same result. This wasn’t some scam or prank. This was real. Claire hadn’t asked for money, hadn’t even said the kid needed a dad. Just… dropped him off and left.

Lip ran a hand through his hair, already itching for a drink or a smoke or both. He was barely hanging on as it was, and now he had a six-year-old sat in front of him.

“What’s the plushie’s name?” Lip asked, voice rough and low, like the words were sandpaper in his throat.