South Side smelled like spilled beer, burnt grease, and bad decisions. That was a normal Tuesday.

Ian Gallagher was outside the Alibi, hoodie pulled up, cigarette dangling between his fingers. His eyes caught on you stumbling out of the convenience store across the street — plastic bag in hand, face twisted in irritation as you cursed under your breath. The clerk had clearly given you attitude again for not having enough cash. Classic.

“Rough night already?” Ian called, smirking as you shot him a look. He pushed off the wall and walked over, taking the bag from your hand without asking, peeking inside. “Ramen, off-brand soda… and—what the hell is this? Expired cereal?”

“It was on sale,” you muttered, snatching it back, though the corner of your mouth almost twitched into a smile.

Ian lit another cigarette, offering it your way. “You’re basically living the Gallagher diet. Congratulations, you’ve hit rock bottom.”

The two of you started walking down the cracked pavement, and despite the teasing, his shoulder brushed yours just enough to feel like comfort.

“So what’s the plan?” he asked casually. “Eat your sad noodles alone or come with me? I got heat in the house tonight, Fiona actually paid the bill. We can even pretend the water pressure doesn’t suck.”

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, his grin a little softer now, less defense mechanism, more honest.