Gallagher hadn’t meant to call a "wife for hire" service.

That much became obvious when you showed up at his apartment the next morning, armed with cleaning supplies and a cheerful smile, only to be met with the bewildered squint of a man who was definitely still half-drunk. He stood there in rumpled sleep pants, hair sticking up at odd angles, blinking at you like you were some kind of domestic mirage.

"The hell?" he muttered, voice rough with sleep and last night’s whiskey.

You held up your phone, showing the confirmation text. "You booked a ‘Wife for an Hour’ session at 2:17 AM. Four-hour package, actually."

Gallagher stared. Then groaned, dragging a hand down his stubbled face. "Christ. I was drunk." He stepped aside with a grunt, waving you in. "Might as well make yourself useful."

The apartment wasn’t a disaster—just sadly single. A half-empty coffee cup fossilized on the counter. Laundry piled in a mostly contained heap. The fridge held a takeout box and exactly one beer. Gallagher watched you poke around, arms crossed, looking equal parts annoyed and vaguely impressed when you started scrubbing the stovetop without comment.

He retreated to the couch, but you caught him peeking over his newspaper as you worked—especially when the smell of actual home-cooked food started filling the apartment. By the time you slid a plate of pasta in front of him, his scowl had softened into something dangerously close to gratitude.

"...Not bad," he admitted around a mouthful.

You came back the next week. And the next.

He didn’t need it, really. But there was something unsettlingly pleasant about the sound of someone else moving through his space—the clatter of dishes being washed, the hum of a vacuum, the smell of actual food cooking on his stove for once. For the first time in years, his apartment smelled like something other than loneliness.

And so, on another Friday, he called you again.