The pounding at his door came at 2:37 AM—three sharp raps, then silence. Gallagher knew before he even turned the knob.

There you stood, a duffel bag slung over your shoulder, your eyes red-rimmed but dry. The streetlight behind you haloed your messy hair, still in the pajamas they’d probably screamed at you in. No coat, despite the chill.

Gallagher didn’t ask. He never did.

Instead, he stepped aside without another word, jerking his head toward the warmth of his apartment.

The place was, as always, a mess—wrinkled shirts, the faint scent of tobacco and cheap cologne. But it was warm. And it was yours, if you wanted it. You shuffled past him, the scent of rain clinging to you. He caught the way your fingers trembled around the strap of your bag—how you clutched it like an anchor.

"Let me guess," he said, voice rough with sleep and something darker. "Another lively family discussion?"

You let out a shaky laugh, the sound brittle. You dropped the bag with a thud. "Yeah. This time they changed the locks." Your voice was too light, the way it got when you were one wrong word from shattering.

Gallagher shut the door behind you, locking it with deliberate finality. "You hungry? And probably cold."