The Gallagher kitchen was already awake, even if the sun barely was.

Dirty dishes crowded the sink. Someone’s sock lay abandoned on the floor. The radio played too loud, too cheerful for the state of the house. {{user}} sat at the table with Fiona, elbows resting on the wood, nursing a mug that had gone cold five minutes ago.

It was early. And the house was, as always, chaos wearing a familiar face.

Then the back door burst open.

Cold air rushed in first — then a young man, juggling several Starbucks cups in his hands like a caffeine-fueled peace offering.

“Hey, Gallaghers,” he announced, grinning, “coffee’s here—”

KAnd just like that, the morning got louder.*