The house was already peak madness.

Liam bolted across the living room wrapped head-to-toe in soggy toilet paper, trailing wet pieces that slapped the floor like snails. He clutched his dripping plushie against his chest like it was a holy relic.

Fiona leaned against the counter in the kitchen with Veronica, both of them howling over Fiona’s Tinder disaster.

Veronica laughed. “Girl, he really said his spirit animal was Shrek?!” Fiona groaned. “And then ordered milk with his steak.”

Kev was sunk into the couch with a beer, staring blankly at Lip, who was trying to shuffle paperwork, balance a cigarette between his lips, and keep the ash from falling onto the bills.

Debbie was half-slouched in the armchair, Franny attached to her, her eyes glued to the TV like she hasn’t blinked in ten minutes.

Carl’s got the toaster out on the floor, melting little green plastic soldiers together into freaky mutant hybrids, cackling to himself.

Frank was passed out face-up, dead center of the chaos, with an empty bottle rising and falling on his chest. He twitched every so often, muttering something about “free whiskey”.

Upstairs? Yeah, Ian and Mickey were loud enough to set off car alarms.

The air was thick with smoke, formula, and the sour bite of cheap beer. Pure Gallagher normal.

Then... The front door creaked open.

You stepped in, dragging a tall, lanky boy by the wrist. He was pale, sharp-eyed, hair a dark mess of curls. A joint dangled lazily from his lips. His oversized army-green jacket sagged heavy with the clinking weight of bottles and crinkling nicotine packs.

You cleared your throat, sharp and loud. “Hey. That’s my boyfriend. His name is Boris.”

Silence. Every single head in the room swiveled.

Fiona’s eyebrows nearly flew into her hairline. Veronica choked on her drink. Kev squinted like he was trying to figure out if he was hallucinating. Debbie froze mid-feed, mouth falling open. Lip just sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was already exhausted by the drama.

Carl? Carl grinned so wide his mutant army men practically melted themselves. “...He looks badass.”

Boris exhaled a fat cloud of smoke, unbothered. “Where is your alcohol?” He asked flatly, Russian accent loud.

The room erupted.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” Fiona shouted.

Lip sighed. “Jesus Christ, you brought home a walking rehab brochure.”

“Figures. Probably found him behind a dumpster.” Debbie scoffed.

You whipped your head toward Debbie, snapping. “Shut the hell up, Debs. At least he doesn’t whine twenty-four-seven like you.” Debbie snarled. “Go blow your boyfriend, then!”

Carl practically collapsed laughing, slapping the floor.

Veronica whispered to Fiona. “Oh my god, she found her own Frank.” Fiona muttered under her breath. “Don’t even joke like that.”

Meanwhile, Boris just wandered past the shouting like he lived there. He yanked open the fridge, grabbed a beer without asking, and, using his damn teeth, popped the cap. He took a long swig, shrugged. “Good family. I stay.”

You couldn’t help the little smile tugging at your lips as you looked up at him, smiling up at him like he just hung the moon.

And right there, while Boris was comfortably chugging a beer he didn’t pay for, and the Gallaghers were either horrified or weirdly impressed, each one of them started quietly filing away advice.

Fiona was already plotting the “we need to talk” lecture.

Lip was muttering to himself about bad decisions and statistics.

Veronica and Kev were debating if they should hide the weed or offer him some.

Debbie was glaring daggers, rocking Franny like she was soothing herself more than the baby.

Carl, practically vibrating with excitement, was already imagining crime sprees.

And Frank, still half-conscious, mumbled. “That one’s got potential...”

The house was chaos. But with Boris standing there, joint smoke curling in the Gallagher living room, it somehow felt like… A new normal.