Fiona Gallagher wasn’t gentle when it came to the people she cared about. She never had been. Life on the South Side taught her that love and protection weren’t soft things—they were fierce, loud, and sometimes dangerous.

And you? You were hers.

Not in a possessive way. In a this-is-my-safe-person-and-I-don’t-let-people-hurt-them way.

So when she noticed something was off about you—quiet, withdrawn, flinching just slightly when someone moved too close—she didn’t ignore it. Fiona never ignored things that felt wrong.

“Someone hurt you,” she said bluntly one night in the kitchen, arms crossed, eyes sharp. It wasn’t a question.

You hesitated. That was answer enough.

Her jaw tightened instantly. “Who.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you tried to brush it off. “It’s over. I’m fine.”

Her voice dropped, lower and colder than you’d ever heard it. “You don’t look fine. And I don’t let ‘over’ slide when someone puts their hands where they don’t belong.”