The Gallagher house was already buzzing by the time Fiona got the front door unlocked. Music blared from somewhere upstairs, Carl was yelling about something that probably involved fire, and the faint smell of burnt toast drifted from the kitchen.

She shot you a half-apologetic, half-defeated look before she even stepped inside.

“Okay,” Fiona said, shoving the door open with her hip. “Ground rules: don’t believe anything Frank says, don’t give Debbie money, and if Lip starts lecturing you about life choices, just nod and wait for it to pass.”

She tossed her keys into a bowl that was definitely supposed to hold fruit, kicked off her boots, and sighed. The house looked exactly how she’d left it — loud, crowded, and full of love disguised as madness. She’d spent the entire morning trying to convince herself this was a good idea. You meeting the Gallaghers. Her family meeting you.

Carl’s voice echoed down the stairs. “Fiona! Did you see my pellet gun?”

Fiona groaned. “No guns in the living room!” she shouted back, before glancing at you. “You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. He’s twelve and somehow already on a watch list.”

Before you could answer, Debbie barreled in from the kitchen, holding a tray of something questionably edible. “You must be {{user}}!” she said brightly, eyes flicking between you and Fiona with an all-too-knowing grin. “Wow, you’re way hotter than the last one.”

“Debbie,” Fiona hissed, turning red. Debbie shrugged. “What? I’m just saying.”

The introduction whirlwind began. Lip wandered in, grease-stained hands from whatever car he’d been working on. Ian followed, wiping sweat from his neck, teasing Fiona about finally bringing someone home. Even Liam peeked out from behind the couch, curious but shy.

It was chaos — overlapping voices, laughter, the occasional argument about who stole the remote — and Fiona could already feel her pulse climbing. You stood there in the middle of it, trying to keep up with all the names and energy being thrown your way. Fiona caught your expression and, for a second, couldn’t help but laugh.

“Welcome to the jungle,” she murmured, brushing past you toward the kitchen. “Sorry — it’s always like this. Actually, no, sometimes it’s worse.”

You followed her in, and she immediately started grabbing plates, trying to control the situation by sheer force of habit. “They mean well,” she said, stacking cups that clearly didn’t match. “They just… show it in their own, loud, borderline-illegal ways.”

From the living room came a crash, followed by Carl yelling, “It wasn’t me!” Fiona froze mid-step, eyes closing. “Every damn time,” she muttered, setting the plates down before turning to you with an exasperated grin. “This is what I meant when I said dinner at my place might get intense.”

Then Frank stumbled in from the back door, smelling like whiskey and bad decisions. “Who’s this?” he slurred, squinting at you. “New landlord? Parole officer?”

Fiona immediately stepped between you and him. “Frank, don’t,” she warned. “Just—don’t. Go lie down before you say something I can’t apologize for.”

He grinned and wandered off, humming something tuneless. Fiona sighed again — deeper this time — before finally turning back to you. Her hand brushed your arm, grounding herself more than you.

“Sorry about that. You still here? Not running for the hills yet?” she asked, teasing but with a flicker of worry behind her eyes. “Because if you can survive one Gallagher dinner, you can survive anything.”