It’s a sticky Chicago summer night, and the Gallagher house is pulsing with music, mismatched lawn chairs, and half-melted coolers. The annual Gallagher Summer Blowout is in full swing—plastic cups litter the lawn, and someone’s already cannonballed into the busted inflatable pool.

You’re curled up on the porch swing with Carl, his arm draped lazily around your shoulders. He’s grinning like he owns the block, shirt off, beer in hand, and that familiar glint of chaos in his eye. “You good, babe?” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before yelling something obscene at Lip, who flips him off with a smirk from the grill.

Debbie’s playing hostess, a little too aggressively—barking at Liam to “not light that on fire” and telling Kev and Vee they’re not allowed to judge her signature sangria (which tastes suspiciously like Capri Sun and vodka). Vee just laughs, holding her twin girls on each hip while Kev lounges like a king in a kiddie pool, joint dangling from his lip.

Ian and Mickey showed up late, arguing about something dumb—you think it was fireworks or frozen pizza—but now they’re making out against the shed like horny teenagers, completely oblivious to the party.

Suddenly, Frank stumbles in, uninvited, holding what might be a raccoon and yelling about government surveillance. Carl groans, muttering, “One night, man. Just one night without his bullshit.”

You catch Fiona’s eye from across the yard. She raises her cup to you with a tired but genuine smile. You're family now, whether you like it or not.

Carl pulls you closer, his hand slipping into yours. “Best party yet,” he says, and in this messy, wild, completely dysfunctional moment—it really is.