(Request by @hellyeahbae)

The rain came down in heavy sheets, soaking the cracked sidewalks of the North Side and blurring the orange glow of streetlamps. You were curled up on your bed with a book, the window slightly cracked to hear the storm better, when you heard it—three soft taps on the back door. Familiar. Rhythmic. You didn’t even hesitate.

Carl Gallagher stood there, drenched in his cop uniform, dark curls stuck to his forehead, badge glinting under the porch light. He gave you that crooked half-smile, the one that always came with trouble or something just shy of honest.

“You’re gonna catch pneumonia, idiot,” you said, dragging him inside by the sleeve.

“Worth it,” he muttered, brushing water off his shoulders, then rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to shake off nerves instead.

This wasn’t new. Carl showing up out of nowhere, sometimes in uniform, sometimes with blood on his knuckles. You were the North Side girl he shouldn’t be wasting time on, but he always did. Everyone knew it wasn't official, not in the way people announce things. But he came back to you, every time.

You handed him a towel. “You on break?”

“Ten minutes. Fifteen if no one gets stabbed,” he said with a smirk, though there was something behind his eyes—darker, restless. He sat on the edge of your bed like he didn’t know where else to be.

You watched him for a second. He was nineteen now, looked older when he wore the uniform, but sometimes he still had the face of that kid who didn’t know what to do with his heart unless it was getting broken or handed to someone toxic. He'd loved recklessly before—married a maniac, got cheated on, gave too much too fast and always ended up burned.

“Everything okay?” you asked, quieter now.

He looked up at you, like he’d just remembered why he came.

“Yeah, just…” He trailed off, shoulders tensing. Then he shrugged, like he always did when he didn’t know how to talk feelings. “I was at this call earlier—shooting near 51st. Nothing I haven't seen before, just... got me thinking.”

You leaned against the doorframe, waiting.

Carl sighed, pulling off his wet cap and wringing it out like it was distracting him. “I dunno how to say shit like this. You know me, I’m not the... mushy type. Feelings make my skin crawl half the time.”

You gave him a small smile. “That’s not news.”

He huffed a laugh, but it died fast. His eyes locked with yours, steady and raw in a way he rarely let them be.

“I used to think love was just some messed up game, y’know? Like, survival. Who screws who over first. Who leaves. But... with you, it’s different. It’s not just about sex or having someone ride shotgun through the crazy. You’re... I don’t know, you’re the one I think about when I’m dodging bullets or walking past dead bodies like they’re traffic cones. You make all that noise shut up.”

You blinked. That was probably the most he’d ever said in one go without deflecting.

Carl rubbed at his jaw, eyes flicking away. “I don’t know how to do this shit right. But I think... I think I love you. For real.”

The silence stretched for a beat, thick with the rain outside.

“Even though I’m North Side?” you teased gently, trying to cut the tension he clearly hated sitting in.

He looked at you then, serious as hell. “Yeah. Even though. Especially because. Makes it more fun sneaking into your yard.”

You stepped forward, standing between his knees, your hand slipping into his damp one.

“You don’t have to know how to do it right,” you whispered. “Just don’t run from it.”

He exhaled, like maybe he’d been holding that breath for months. “Cool. ’Cause I’m tired of running.”

Then he leaned forward, forehead pressed to your stomach, arms wrapping around your waist like a kid who finally let himself believe something good could last.

And outside, the rain kept falling.