1

The mornings were colder now. That kind of quiet chill that crept under your sleeves and into your bones before the sun had even properly risen.

I stood in the kitchen, pulling a hoodie over my tank top, the coffee pot sputtering behind me. The boys were already gone — Conner's bus came at 7:12 sharp, and Lucas was practically sprinting to school every morning just to hang out with his friends before the bell rang.

It was weird, how still the house felt without them.

No cereal spilled on the floor. No yelling over cartoon channels. Just me, my coffee, and the little tick-tick-tick of the old kitchen clock.

I took a long sip, staring out the window at the Gallagher house next door. The porch light was off. Curtains drawn. No sign of Lip.

Not that I'd seen much of him lately.

He'd stopped drinking, or at least that's what I heard. Fiona mentioned it once when I passed her outside — something about meetings and "staying clean, one day at a time." He wasn't storming through the neighborhood anymore. No broken porch chairs. No slurred rants on the front steps at 2 a.m.

It should've made me feel better.

Instead, it made my chest ache in that hollow way, like missing someone who was still standing twenty feet away.

⸻

By eleven, I was pulling on my apron behind the kitchen at Denny's — well, not Denny's, but some cheap knockoff version where the fries never came out hot and the coffee tasted like burnt regret.

Still, it was a job. A steady one.

Tips weren't great, but the cooks were decent, and my manager only hit on me once a week now instead of every day, so I counted it as progress.

"Table four needs silverware," Janie called from behind the bar, smacking her gum like it was a sport.

"I got it," I muttered, grabbing the roll-ups and heading out to the front.

It was the usual crowd — tired truckers, single moms, the same three old men who ordered black coffee and talked politics like the world hadn't changed since 1972. I moved through them like muscle memory, smiling when I had to, zoning out when I could.

But then I saw him.

Lip.

He was sitting in a corner booth, hoodie on, hood up, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

I froze.

He looked up.

Our eyes met.

And just like that, every breath I'd taken in the last three months felt like it caught in my throat.

He looked good. Tired, but good. Clear-eyed. Clean. The Lip I remembered in flashes — from early mornings and late-night walks and all those stupid little moments that used to mean nothing until they meant everything.

He didn't wave. Didn't smile. Just nodded.

Like, yeah. I'm here. And yeah, I see you too.

I nodded back.

And then I kept walking.

Because I wasn't ready yet.

Not to sit across from him. Not to hear what he had to say. Not to tell him I still loved him, even when I wanted to strangle him.

Not yet.It was dark by the time I finally clocked out. The kind of damp October night where the streetlights flicker and the wind bites through your jacket. My back ached, my feet were killing me, and I smelled like fries and coffee creamer, but I'd survived another shift.

I stepped outside, already digging for my keys.

And there he was.

Lip.

Leaning against the side of the building, hands stuffed in the pockets of that same old gray hoodie, hood pulled halfway over his face. He looked up as soon as he heard the door.

I froze. Just like earlier.

"Hey," he said, voice low, like he didn't want to scare me off.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, pulling my hoodie tighter around me.

"Wasn't sure you'd want to talk. But I figured... I'd be here just in case."

There was a long pause.

I should've said go home.

I didn't.

Instead, I shifted my bag higher on my shoulder and said, "Alright. Walk me."

⸻

The sidewalk between the diner and our block was cracked and uneven, scattered with leaves that stuck to your shoes. It was quiet, just our footsteps, and the occasional car rumbling past in the distance.

Lip shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie. "I've been clean. Two months."

I looked over at him, but he wasn't looking at me. Just ahead, like if he didn't meet my eyes it wouldn't hurt as bad if I didn't believe him.

"I go to meetings. Fiona comes with me sometimes, when she can."

"That's good," I said softly.

He nodded, toeing a chunk of broken pavement as we passed.

"I wanted to tell you earlier. At the diner. But I didn't wanna do it there. Didn't wanna put you on the spot."

"I appreciate that."

He finally looked at me then. Really looked. "I miss you, Erin."

I stopped walking.

He stopped too, just a few steps ahead.

"I'm not asking for everything back," he said quickly, like he was scared I'd bolt. "Not yet. I just— I needed you to know I'm trying. For real this time. Not just saying it."

I studied him. The tired eyes, the hands that wouldn't stop fidgeting, the way his voice cracked when he said I miss you.

I missed him too.

But that didn't erase the pain from three months ago. The door slamming. The fights. The way he looked through me some nights like he didn't even see me anymore.

"I know you are," I said finally.

His shoulders dropped a little, like he'd been holding his breath and finally let some of it go.

We started walking again, slower this time.

"Kids doing okay?" he asked.

"They're good. Back in school. Conner joined some after-school comic book club and now thinks he's gonna be a writer. Lucas is still in that phase where he won't eat anything that's not a chicken nugget."

He smiled. "Some things never change."

"Yeah," I said. "Some do, though."

We got to my porch. I stopped at the bottom of the steps. He didn't follow me up.

"Thanks for walking me," I said.

He nodded. "Yeah. Anytime."

He turned to go, but I called after him. "Hey, Lip?"

He looked back.

"I'm glad you came tonight."

He didn't smile. But something in his face shifted. Softer. Brighter.

"Me too."

Then he walked next door, quiet as ever.

And I stood there for a second, heart pounding harder than it should've been.

Because maybe — just maybe — we weren't done yet.