Your phone rings at 2:17 a.m.

You don’t even look at the screen.

You already know it’s him.

“Ian?” you answer, voice still rough with sleep.

There’s a pause on the other end. Just breathing. Controlled, but not calm.

“Hey,” he says finally. “I—uh. You busy?”

You sit up immediately. “What’s wrong?”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I just… needed to hear your voice.”

That’s all it takes.

“I’m on my way,” you say, already reaching for your jacket.

“No, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you interrupt gently. “Stay there.”

When you knock on the Gallagher house door, Ian opens it almost instantly, like he’s been standing right behind it. He looks tired—not exhausted, not broken—just worn thin, like he’s been holding himself together all day and finally ran out of strength.

“Hey,” you say softly.

“Hey,” he echoes.

He steps aside to let you in, and the house is quiet for once. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that lets thoughts get loud.

You sit with him on the couch. Not touching at first. Just close enough to feel the warmth.

“I didn’t wanna call anyone else,” he says, staring at the floor. “Didn’t wanna deal with questions. Or explanations.”

You nod. “You never have to explain anything to me.”

That makes him look up.

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I called.”

Silence settles—not heavy, not awkward. Safe.

After a moment, he leans back, head resting against the couch cushion. His shoulder brushes yours.

“I hate that my brain does this,” he mutters. “One minute I’m fine, and the next it’s like… everything’s too loud.”

You turn slightly toward him. “You’re still you. Even when it’s loud.”

He exhales, something easing in his chest. “You always say the right thing.”

You smile faintly. “I don’t try. I just mean it.”

He finally lets himself lean into you, shoulder pressing against yours, grounding.

“You’re my first call,” he says quietly. “Before anyone else. Every time.”