You’re still like a son to Mr. Gallagher.

Maybe more than that.

Mr. Gallagher never says it, but he shows it. He calls you from time to time, invites you for a drink like you were his own blood. He gives you advice, listens to you. Sometimes he even looks at you like he wishes he’d had you instead of the ones he got.

And tonight was one of those calls.

But of course, you can’t get to him without going through Liam. It’s always like that.

And there he is. Leaning against the bar with a half-finished cigarette, shirt partly unbuttoned, eyes heavy with too many sleepless nights and drinks that no longer do the job. He sees you coming like always with that look you still can’t read: anger, desire, or a bit of both.

“Dad called you again, huh?” he says bluntly.

He makes it sound like a joke. It’s not. And he walks toward you. Slowly. Studying you. Like he’s still waiting for the answer to the question you never seem to give:

Are you going to choose him? Or Noel?

You could tell him you can’t. That you don’t want to. That the thought of chaining yourself to one of them forever makes it hard to breathe. But you don’t.

Because you know that if you ever do, there’s no turning back.