The alarm had been blaring for seven minutes. Gallagher leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the lump of blankets twitch feebly to the rhythm of your snores. Sunlight has already cut through the blinds. Of course you’d oversleep.

A grunt. A slow drag of his hand down his face. Then, with the resigned air of a man who’d long accepted that waking you up was a battle of attrition, he leaned over the bed, voice rough with sleep and last night’s whiskey, but edged with urgency.

"Hey. You're gonna be late."

No response.

Gallagher's hand slid to your shoulder, shaking you lightly.

"Come on, Sleeping Beauty. Up."

Silence.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Then, with the precision of a man who’d spent years dragging drunkards out of bars, he hooked an arm under your shoulders and hauled you upright, letting you slump against his chest like a disgruntled ragdoll.

You swayed, still half-asleep, and his hands steadied you—one at your back, the other tilting your chin up. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, a fleeting touch before he pulled away, already moving toward the closet.

"Your bag's packed," he said, tossing a sweater at you. It landed on your lap, still warm from where he'd draped it over the radiator. "Coffee's in the thermos. Don't spill it this time."