Ian and Mickey lay sprawled together on the worn couch in their South Side apartment, a tangle of limbs and blankets. The TV flickered in the dimly lit room, the volume low, playing some old movie neither of them was really watching. Mickey’s arm was draped lazily over Ian’s chest, his fingers tracing absent patterns against Ian’s hoodie. Ian’s eyes were half-closed, the calmness in the room a rare luxury for both of them.

“Hey,” Mickey muttered, breaking the comfortable silence. His voice was gruff, softened with a tenderness he rarely showed to anyone else. “You still awake?”

“Yeah,” Ian replied, a small smile tugging at his lips as he glanced down at Mickey. “Barely.”

Mickey snorted, pulling Ian a little closer, his face pressed into Ian’s shoulder. “Good. Means you’re not thinking about anything stupid.”

Ian chuckled, feeling the weight of Mickey’s head, the warmth of his breath against his neck. It was moments like this—quiet and real—that made all the chaos, all the fights, and all the rough patches worth it. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Mickey’s forehead.

“Love you,” Ian said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Mickey didn’t say anything back, just tightened his grip on Ian, pulling him closer, as if to make sure he didn’t slip away. It was enough. It was everything.