The early morning chill clung to your jacket as you stormed through the back door of the Gallagher house, the familiar creak of the hinges and the faint scent of burnt toast greeting you like an old song. The kitchen was bathed in that golden, sleep-drenched sunlight that filtered in through the half-broken blinds, dust dancing lazily in the air like glitter caught in a sunbeam. Debbie sat at the table in a faded purple hoodie, spooning cereal into her mouth while Lip leaned back in his chair, balancing a cigarette between his fingers and flipping through a dog-eared physics textbook.

“Hey,” Lip mumbled without looking up.

Debbie raised her spoon and grinned. “You look like a hurricane.”

“Yeah, well,” you replied, brushing windblown hair from your face, “I need caffeine or I’m gonna start biting people.”

They both snorted, unfazed by your dramatic entrance.

You didn’t wait for an invitation—you never had to in this house. You made a beeline to the counter, grabbing a chipped mug with a cartoon cow on it and pouring yourself a generous dose of lukewarm coffee from the machine that had probably seen better decades. The smell alone made your shoulders relax. Everything in this kitchen was chaos—open cereal boxes, sticky counters, and peeling wallpaper—but it was home in a way your own house never quite was.

Cradling the mug in both hands, you wandered into the living room, the soles of your sneakers thudding softly against the worn wooden floor. You dropped onto the couch with a sigh, your body melting into the sagging cushions. The fabric was warm, still holding the heat of someone who’d been there not long before. Probably Ian. Your heart gave a tiny lurch at the thought.

Upstairs, you heard the telltale creak of footsteps, the thump of someone moving down the hallway. You turned your head toward the stairs just as Ian appeared, still tugging on a hoodie over a wrinkled t-shirt, his red hair tousled and sticking up in half a dozen directions. His eyes were bleary with sleep, but the second he saw you on the couch, his mouth tugged into a crooked smile.

“Hey,” you said, offering the mug in your hands without thinking. It was something you always did, like it was just muscle memory by now—sharing space, sharing silence, sharing warmth.

Ian blinked sleepily and took the cup, wrapping his hands around it as if it were the only thing tethering him to the world. He took a long sip, then sighed through his nose, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

“Hey,” he murmured back, voice still gravelly with sleep. His yawn cracked into the air, honest and unguarded.

You watched the way the light caught in the copper strands of his hair, the way his lashes cast tiny shadows on his cheeks. The living room was quiet now, the hum of the fridge and the low murmur of Debbie’s voice in the kitchen the only background noise. Ian stood there, coffee cup in hand, barefoot and soft in the morning light, and for a split second, you forgot how to breathe.

“You look like hell,” you teased gently, trying to smother the thudding in your chest with humor.

Ian scratched the back of his neck. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“You never do,” you replied, softer this time.

His gaze caught yours, held it for a beat too long. There was something unsaid hanging in the air between you—something warm and fragile and quietly electric. Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.

You finally patted the spot beside you on the couch, and he dropped down next to you with a sigh that shook the cushion. His shoulder brushed yours, the heat of him bleeding through the layers of both your clothes. You could feel the slight tremble in his fingers as he passed the mug back to you.