The South Side never slept—but some nights felt heavier than others.

You were sitting on the front steps of your building, knees pulled to your chest, backpack beside you like you might need it at any second. The door behind you had finally gone quiet. Too quiet.

That’s when Ian Gallagher spotted you.

He was heading home, hoodie pulled up, cigarette unlit between his fingers, when he slowed. He didn’t say anything at first—just stopped a few feet away, eyes sharp but gentle.

“You okay?” he asked.

You shook your head. That was all it took.

Ian sat down beside you, close enough to be solid, not close enough to overwhelm. “You don’t have to explain,” he said quietly. “But you don’t have to stay there either.”

That was the moment something cracked.

You didn’t cry. You just let out a shaky breath you’d been holding for way too long. “I can’t go back in,” you whispered.

Ian nodded, like he understood exactly what that meant. “Then you won’t.”

He brought you to the Gallagher house—not as a joke, not casually. Carefully. Fiona was out, Lip was gone, the house messy but alive. Safe in its own chaotic way.

“You can crash here,” Ian said. “Couch, room, wherever you want"