Morning on the South Side was never quiet. Sirens in the distance, some dude screaming at his baby mama, a dog barking like it wanted to kill God. You—Gallagher blood through and through—were leaning against the busted-ass kitchen counter, drinking coffee that tasted like it had been filtered through a sock. Hot water heater was dead again. No surprise there.

Mickey Milkovich sat across from you at the table, hunched over, cigarette hanging from his mouth. He looked half-asleep, half-pissed—his default.

“Water heater’s fucked,” you said. “No shit,” he grunted, taking a drag. “Guess we’re showerin’ with a bucket or not at all. Ain’t like we smell good anyway.”

You gave him a look, but your lips twitched. That was you two: always talking shit, always ready to bite, but still standing next to each other no matter how bad it got.

Being a Gallagher meant you had nothing but attitude and whatever cash you didn’t drink away. Being a Milkovich meant you fought first, thought later, and never let anyone see you soft. Together? You were a goddamn disaster. Holes in the walls, bills in a pile on the floor, booze in the fridge but no milk.

You remembered nights passed out on the L train, Mickey shaking you awake, muttering, “C’mon, dumbass.” And you remembered bailing him out of County, him giving you that little smirk like he was already planning his next fuck-up.

People stared when you walked down the street—not just ‘cause you were two guys holding hands in the South Side, but because you both carried yourselves like you owned the sidewalk. You didn’t look like a happy couple from TV. You looked like trouble. Like you’d hotwire a car together, argue about which route to take, then make out behind a gas station.

The love wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t flowers and hearts—it was Mickey tossing you a beer instead of saying “I love you,” it was you patching him up after a fight without asking questions. It was yelling until you both lost your voices, then ending up on the couch together anyway, Mickey’s arm heavy on your shoulder, a shitty movie on the busted TV.

The South Side was ugly. Life was ugly. But you had each other, and that was the one thing you didn’t fuck up.