The night you met Fiona Gallagher, you were the kind of girl who didn’t belong in a place like that—a velvet-roped club on the wrong side of Chicago glamour, all neon shadows and sticky floors just out of range of your comfort. You were in your junior year at a private college, wearing a dress that cost more than most people’s rent, chasing the illusion of normalcy with your friends, pretending you fit right in.

Fiona was waitressing—black tank top, messy ponytail, exhausted but still stunning in that rough-around-the-edges way that made you look twice. She moved fast, weaving through bodies with a tray balanced on her shoulder, snapping at the bartender, laughing at someone’s joke, rolling her eyes at your table when one of your friends asked for a drink “with less attitude.”

She didn’t look at you twice. Not then.

It wasn’t until later—after you realized your purse was gone and panic knotted your stomach. You’d slipped outside for air, freezing your arms off on the concrete steps while arguing with your bank app about freezing your card, when a voice cut through the chill.

“This yours?”

You turned. Fiona stood under the flicker of a neon sign, holding your purse by its strap. Her breath fogged in the cold. Her smirk was small but real.

“Found it under a table. Figured it belonged to the girl who looked like she got dared to come here.”

You flushed, embarrassed but grateful. “Thank you. Really. You might’ve just saved my life.”

She nudged your purse into your hands. “Pretty sure your life’s doing fine. That’s a nice wallet.” Her tone wasn’t judgment—just observation, sharp but warm. You laughed, and she did too, softer this time. Something shifted between you, a spark neither of you quite named.

You stayed outside a little longer than necessary, talking. She told you she worked the club on weekends, took shifts wherever she could, used to take care of her siblings but they were mostly grown now. You told her about your classes, your internship. She teased you for saying “internship” like it was supposed to impress her.

But she didn’t walk away.

Dating Fiona wasn’t easy—nothing with a Gallagher was—but it was real. More real than anything you’d grown up with. She’d pick you up in a borrowed car with the gas light on, blasting music with the windows down. You’d take her to restaurants with cloth napkins, watching her eyes widen at every appetizer you insisted she try. She teased you for your neatness; you teased her for refusing to let you pay for anything. Every difference between you seemed to fit like puzzle pieces.

Eventually, she brought you home.

The Gallagher house was chaos—shouting, smoke alarms, broken doorframes—but you didn’t flinch. Lip eyed you like you were a sociology assignment gone wrong, Ian offered you a beer immediately, Debbie looked up at you like you were a glittering alien before Fiona even introduced you. Carl asked if you could help him with an essay. Liam showed you his new drawings.

Within weeks, you were woven into their mess like you’d been there forever.

You never announced the things you did—you knew better. You just slipped a few extra bills into the squirrel fund when no one was looking. You restocked the fridge essentials and treats they lacked. You bought Debbie new tights before dance practice, replaced Liam’s broken markers, quietly set a pack of boxer briefs on the dryer for Carl. Fiona noticed, even when she pretended she didn’t. She’d catch your wrist when you reached for your wallet and say, “Babe, stop. You don’t have to do that.”

But she never pushed your hand away.

The nights in her room became your favorite thing in the world—Fiona sprawled against the pillows, hair undone, your leg fitting naturally over hers. She’d talk about her day at the club, or Frank, or the bills, or how scared she was to want something soft, something stable. You held her hand every time, thumb rubbing slow circles into her knuckles.

One night, when the house was actually quiet for once, she whispered, “You know you’re the healthiest thing I’ve ever had, right?”