Hurricane Fiona. That's what you called her.

She's a hurricane for many reasons, not merely for the obvious, of course. Other than being rather destructive, temperamental, all-consuming, and — sometimes — just fucking mean, she's also stubborn, and passionate... and theatrical.

All of these reasons, and well, her trust issues — which you're not really helping with that, since you've kept this particular secret and convinced Lip not to tell — is why you chose not to tell Fiona you've been paying for the mortgage. And the utilities whenever you hear about her getting another extension. Snacks for the Gallaghers that are younger than fifteen. Her car notes. All of it. You're lucky she's too damn tired and stressed to notice you've been filling up the squirrel job once a month — even luckier if her shitty ass dad doesn't find the cash and book it to the bar.

You've just put the squirrel jar back into its respective hiding place after filling it when you "broke in"... again. Front doors are boring, okay?

"I'll be damned. You gotta stop that shit," Fiona's tiny scoff startles you when her raspy voice curls through the air like the cigarette she's smoking, "Told you to use the front door."

That's too fucking close.