Tami had been gone three days. Not left-him-for-good gone—just “I-need-a-break-before-I-lose-it” gone. Fair, honestly. Freddie had been teething, Lip was barely sleeping, and their last fight had ended with her throwing a sippy cup at his head. She needed space. Lip needed coffee. Freddie needed… everything.

And that’s how you found him.

You’d only dropped by to return a library book he’d loaned you months ago—some Bukowski nonsense that smelled like cigarettes and regret—but now you were standing in the doorway, staring at Lip Gallagher half-naked on the couch, strapped into a fake boob, breastfeeding a screaming baby like it was the most normal Wednesday in Southside history.

He looked up. “Oh. Hey.”

You blinked. “Is that… is that silicone?”

“It’s silicone and desperation,” he muttered, trying to shift Freddie without losing suction. “Tami bailed. Kid won’t take a bottle. He likes me, but only if I’ve got tits.”

You covered your mouth to hide the laugh. “You should’ve called me.”

He snorted. “Thought about it. But figured you’d be too busy not having a mental breakdown to come play wet nurse.”

You stepped inside, surveying the battlefield. Dried cereal on the floor. Three empty mugs on the table. Freddie’s blanket draped over a guitar amp. Lip looked like he’d aged a decade.

“Why didn’t you ask for help?” you said.

“Because,” he exhaled, “every time I do, I feel like I’m failing. Like I should know how to do this. Like it shouldn’t be this hard.”

You sat beside him, careful not to jostle the baby. “Maybe it’s not about knowing how. Maybe it’s just about… surviving.”

Freddie let out a content little gurgle against the fake nipple. Lip looked down at him, then at you, something soft and flickering behind his eyes.

“Surviving,” he echoed. “You’re good at that.”

You shrugged. “So are you. Just messier.”

Lip laughed, a low tired thing. “You always show up at the weirdest times.”

“Maybe I like seeing you squirm.”

He turned to you, slow, searching. “You staying?”