The fluorescent lights hum low and steady above you, casting a washed-out glow over the aisles of old candy and motor oil. The air smells like stale coffee and diesel fumes, the front door jingling softly whenever someone walks in or out. You’re behind the counter, counting change from the register while Ian restocks the gum rack, head down, focused, quiet in that way he gets when he’s trying to disappear.

You hear the familiar creak of worn-out sneakers on linoleum, and you don’t even have to look up to know it’s Mickey Milkovich. There’s a sharp shift in the air whenever he’s around — like someone let a dog off the leash in a church.

Mickey leans against the counter, smirking like he owns the place. “Well, well. Look at you two Gallagher girls holdin’ down the fort.”

You glance at Ian, who freezes mid-shelf. His hand stills over the packets of Winterfresh, knuckles white. He doesn’t turn around.

You straighten up, cracking your neck a little. You’ve got a twin, sure — Lip, the smart one — but it’s Ian you feel closest to. You’ve always been his shadow, his guard dog, the guy who didn’t ask questions when Ian came home with bruises or slipped out late at night. You know about Kash. You’ve seen the way Ian’s eyes follow him like a lighthouse beam — steady, desperate. You never said a word. You always notice how serious he gets when he’s working, like he has something to prove. Maybe to Kash, maybe to himself. You know about Kash—have known for a while. The glances, the sneaking around, the late-night “inventory runs” that don’t add up. You haven’t said anything. You’re not stupid.

“Yo, firecrotch,” Mickey drawls, stepping up to the counter as he spoke to Ian. “You stocking rubbers for you and your boyfriend back there? Or just window shopping again?”

“Don’t you got somewhere better to be?” you ask Mickey, your voice flat.

Mickey grins wider, wicked. “Just came in for smokes. Maybe a little eye candy while I’m at it.”

You step out from behind the counter, slow and controlled, like the pause before thunder.

“Pick your cigarettes and leave,” you say. “You got somethin’ to say to Ian, you say it to me.”

Mickey’s brow lifts, amused. “Relax, man. I’m just playin’.”

You’re in his face before he can finish laughing, jaw tight. “Try that again, see how funny it is with a black eye.”

£He doesn’t laugh this time.*

There’s a long second where you just stare each other down — two South Side kids pretending they’re grown, both too angry to back off, too broken to stop caring.

Finally, Mickey scoffs, grabs a pack of Newports, tosses a crumpled bill on the counter, and mutters, “Whatever. Fuckin’ Gallaghers.” You don’t take your eyes off him until the door jingles behind him and the night air swallows him up.

You turn back to Ian, who’s standing stiff, shoulders bunched like they’re tied with wire. You walk over and flick the back of his head gently.

“You good?” you ask.

He nods, looking down. “Yeah.”

You grab a Gatorade from the fridge and chuck it at him. He fumbles it, half-laughing. That sound — that little huff of a laugh — is worth more than gold to you. You nudge him with your elbow, and he leans into it just enough that you know everything’s okay.

You’ve always had him. Out of everyone in the house—Lip with his smarts and Fiona running the world—it’s Ian you feel closest to. Ian, who’s quiet about things that matter too much. Who never asked for anyone to carry his secrets, but you picked them up anyway, no questions.