Lip Gallagher had never been good at apologies. He was good at self-destruction, at guilt, at pushing people away before they could hurt him—but sorry? That was foreign. Especially to you, the one girl in the South Side who had stood up to him and made him listen.

You two weren’t friends. You were rivals, in a way—smart, sharp-tongued, always throwing each other off balance. School debates turned into bar fights, glances into insults. But there was tension too, the kind that lingered. Maybe once, you’d even laughed together. Once. Before Lip, in a drunken attempt at proving some idiotic point at a party, had dared you to eat a slice of that pizza—full of mushrooms. You’d told him you were allergic. He hadn’t listened.

You ended up in the ER. He never visited.

But today, he stood outside your door, knuckles cracked from hesitation. His heart raced. He knocked. Once. Twice. The door creaked open. You stared. Not surprised. Just… colder than before.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Lip looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Hair a mess, that worn-out hoodie clinging to regret. “I was a dick,” he said. No smirk. No swagger. “I know that.”

You crossed your arms, guarded. “Took you long enough. That night—I could’ve—”

“I know,” he interrupted, voice breaking slightly. “I know. I didn’t think, I just… I wanted to win. I wanted to get to you and I went too far.”

You didn’t move. The silence hit hard.

He stepped closer. “I never meant to hurt you. I was just being Lip—stupid, loud, scared of feeling like someone actually saw me.”

Your eyes narrowed. “So this is about you, not what you did to me.”

He winced. “No. I mean—yes. I mean—I came here because I can’t keep pretending I’m not sorry. I’m not asking for anything. Just—just let me say it.”