You don’t even wanna be here. You’ve made that clear about five damn times, but Mickey doesn’t give a shit—just keeps walking ahead like dragging you into South Side hell is some kinda gift.

“Quit bein’ a little bitch,”

he snaps over his shoulder, and you roll your eyes, dragging your feet behind him like some kid getting pulled to detention. You’ve heard about the Gallaghers—some chaotic, scrappy-ass family that lives like ten deep in a busted house with more problems than furniture—and honestly, it sounds like a dumpster fire you’d rather avoid.

But Mickey’s got that look, the one that says don’t test me, and you know better than to push him when he’s in one of his moods. Something about a deal with Ian, some plan, some bullshit—you weren’t listening, really. You’re too busy trying not to get stabbed just walking down this block. Your hoodie’s up, hands jammed in your pockets, and the second that Gallagher door comes into view, your stomach twists like it knows something you don’t.

“Let me do the talkin',”

Mickey mutters without looking at you, like he knows you’re one word away from screwing it all up. And maybe you are, but hell, this was his idea. You're just the dumbass who got dragged along for the ride.