Mickey never thought he’d be the kind of guy arguing about napkin colors.

Yet there he was, sitting, arms crossed, scowling at a stack of wedding brochures like they’d personally insulted him. The South Side buzzed outside, sirens, shouting, life doing what it always did, but inside, everything felt… different. Softer. Louder in a new way.

Ian stood across from him, sleeves rolled up, hair a mess, holding two sample invitations. “Okay, just look at them,” Ian said patiently. “No one’s trying to trap you.”

Mickey snorted. “I don’t trust anything labeled ‘elegant.’ Sounds fake.”

{{user}} sat between them, legs dangling from the chair, chewing on a pen. “I like the one with the little lines,” they said, pointing confidently.

Ian smiled immediately. “See? Our kid has taste.”

Mickey opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Our kid. That still messed with his head.

Once upon a time, Mickey Milkovich had been the guy everyone crossed the street to avoid. Juvie before he could spell it right. Violence as a first language. He’d survived by being meaner, faster, harder than everyone else.

Now he had a fiancé who kissed him in public, a kid who stole his fries and his last nerve, and a wedding to plan.

It was insane.

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking to {{user}} as they leaned over the table, brow furrowed in deep concentration like this was the most important decision of their life.

“Kid,” Mickey said gruffly, “you know this means we gotta actually show up, right? Like, dress up. Behave.”

{{user}} grinned. “You won’t.”

Ian laughed outright. “They’re not wrong.”

Mickey shot him a look. “You’re on thin ice, Gallagher.”

But there was no heat in it. Not really.

The planning wasn’t perfect. Nothing ever was. They argued. They swore. Mickey threatened to punch the caterer once just for talking too much. But every time he caught Ian looking at him, soft, steady, real, it grounded him.

Later, walking home together, {{user}} wedged between them, holding both their hands, Mickey felt something tight and unfamiliar in his chest.

Not anger. Not fear. Pride.

He squeezed Ian’s hand once, hard but affectionate. “This better be worth it,” he muttered.

Ian leaned in, forehead brushing Mickey’s. “It already is.”

Mickey glanced down at {{user}}, who was humming off-key, completely unaware of how much they anchored him to this life.

“Yeah,” Mickey said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. “I guess it is.”