The nights were always loud.

Sirens echoing down the street. Someone yelling two houses over. The Gallagher house never truly slept—doors opening and closing, footsteps on the stairs, chaos humming like background noise.

But mornings? Mornings were different.

You woke up before everyone else, the light barely creeping through the thin curtains. The house felt smaller then. Gentler. Like it was catching its breath.

Ian was already awake, sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee, elbows resting on the surface, hair a mess like he hadn’t bothered fighting it yet. He looked tired—but peaceful.

“Morning,” you said softly.

He glanced up and smiled, the real kind. “Hey.”

You sat across from him, wrapping your hands around your own mug. Neither of you spoke right away. You didn’t need to. The quiet felt earned after the night before—after the chaos, the worry, the way everything always seemed to spiral once the sun went down.

“I like this part,” Ian said eventually, voice low.

“This part?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “When everything’s still. When it’s just… us. No emergencies. No drama. Just breathing.”