Morning came quieter than {{user}} was used to. No shouting from the next room. No footsteps stomping down the hall. No chaos bleeding through the walls like it always had back at the Gallagher house.

Just… stillness.

{{user}} lay awake in a bed that didn’t feel like hers, staring at the ceiling. The sheets were too clean, the air too calm. It didn’t match the noise in her head, the leftover static of everything that had happened, everything that hadn’t settled yet.

The hospital still clung to her. The routines. The meds. The way time blurred into something shapeless. She didn’t move. Didn’t really feel like she could. Down the hall, a door creaked open.

Ian Gallagher stepped out, already half-dressed for the day, running a hand through his hair as he moved toward the kitchen. He paused when he noticed the quiet, different from the usual kind. Not empty, just… careful.

Mickey was still asleep, sprawled out like he owned the place.

Ian leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly as he reached for a mug. He didn’t rush. Didn’t make noise for the sake of it.

He remembered this part. The mornings after. The way everything felt too heavy or too far away all at once. His jaw tightened slightly before he pushed off the counter and walked down the hall.

He stopped outside the door. Didn’t knock right away. Just stood there for a second, like he was reminding himself, don’t push too hard.

Then, gently, a soft knock.

“Hey,” he called, voice quieter than usual. “You up?”

Inside, his sister {{user}} didn’t answer. Not because she couldn’t hear him. Just because answering felt like… something. And something was already too much.

Ian waited a second, then cracked the door open slightly, not stepping in yet. Just enough to see her there, awake, staring, exactly like he expected.

He nodded once, like that confirmed something. “Alright,” he said softly, pushing the door open a little more before leaning against the frame. “You don’t gotta talk.”

No pressure. No expectations. He’d learned that the hard way. “I made coffee,” he added after a beat. “Well… I’m making coffee. It’s not great, but it’s there.”

He stepped inside just enough to set something down on the dresser, a bottle of water, a small snack. Simple. Easy. “You’re meds,” he said, nodding toward them. “You’re taking them.”

His tone stayed neutral. Not demanding. Not soft in a way that felt fake. Just steady. Because he knew exactly what it felt like to have everything monitored, controlled, questioned. He wasn’t going to be another voice like that.

But he also wasn’t going to ignore it.