The South Side smelled like burnt cigarettes and fried something greasy the day you moved in. Your mom sat in her wheelchair on the cracked sidewalk, watching while you hauled boxes from the back of the beat-up van. The ramp you built yourself was leaning more to the left than it should’ve, but it got the job done. People stared, but this was Chicago—staring was just foreplay to ignoring.

Ian noticed you first while biking past. He was supposed to be heading to the Kash n’ Grab, but his eyes locked on you bending over the backseat to pull out a box. Pale skin, hair sticking to your forehead, and this tired-but-defiant look—like you’d seen more than your share already.

“Need a hand?” Ian asked, hopping off his bike.

You looked up, sizing him up in a second. Tall, ginger, lean—wearing an old hoodie and sneakers that’d seen better years. “Nah,” you said, but your arms were trembling from holding the box.

He smirked and grabbed it anyway, carrying it up the makeshift ramp like it weighed nothing. Your mom thanked him from the doorway, voice warm but tired. Ian just nodded, leaning in the doorway after setting the box down.

“You new here?” he asked.