Fiona let out a long breath as she slumped into the kitchen chair, the weight of exhaustion pressing into her shoulders. Her feet ached from hours of pacing behind the bar, dodging grabby hands and forcing polite smiles at men who looked at her like she was just another drink on the menu. The wad of crumpled bills in her hand felt heavier than it should—dirty money, but necessary. She spread the cash out on the table, smoothing out the wrinkled ones and counting under her breath. Rent was due. The electric bill was past due. Groceries were running low. It was never enough, but it had to be.

The house was its usual mess—empty beer cans on the counter, a sink full of dishes nobody bothered to clean, the distant hum of the TV in the living room blending with the sounds of shouting from outside. The Gallagher house never slept, even when it should. She rubbed at her eyes, smudging leftover eyeliner across her fingers, before reaching for the half-eaten bag of chips someone had abandoned. It wasn’t much, but cooking wasn’t in her tonight.

The floor creaked softly. Fiona looked up, her fingers pausing mid-crunch. A small figure lingered in the doorway—{{user}}, wrapped in oversized pajamas, her hair still tangled from sleep. Her sister’s eyes were drowsy but searching, her hesitation clear as she stepped forward, bare feet silent against the linoleum.

Fiona sighed and straightened in her chair, pushing the cash aside. The sight of {{user}}—small, vulnerable, waiting for her—hit harder than it should. Guilt curled in her stomach, twisting with the shame she was already fighting off. She should be better than this. Shouldn’t be coming home at dawn, shouldn’t be wearing an outfit that made her feel like a stranger in her own skin, shouldn’t be surviving on greasy bar tips from drunk patrons. But here she was.

She forced a smirk, tired but genuine. “Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, voice rough from the smoky bar air.