The shopping trip had been your idea—not that Gallagher had been particularly thrilled about it. It started when you noticed how he always wore the same rotation of slightly wrinkled button-downs and worn-in trousers, how his "dressier" outfits just meant a marginally less faded version of the same thing. There was nothing wrong with comfort, of course, but there was something about the way he carried himself—like a man who had long stopped considering how the world saw him. You wanted to change that, just a little. Not to make him look younger, just... more himself.

The mall lighting was too bright, the music too peppy, and Gallagher looked about as comfortable as a wolf in a pet store. He stood stiffly near the fitting rooms, arms crossed, eyeing the stack of clothes you’d handed him with deep suspicion.

Later, he emerged from the fitting room with the stiff posture of a man being led to his own execution. The dark navy sweater fit him perfectly—tailored enough to look intentional, but still relaxed in a way that suited him. The fabric made his eyes brighter, the silver streaks in his stubble look deliberate rather than neglected.

He cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact. "This is... fine," he muttered, tugging at the hem.

It was progress. The first three outfits had been met with outright scowls— "Too tight," "Too flashy," "What kind of grown man wears this color?"—but this one had potential. He turned slightly, eyeing himself in the mirror with wary suspicion, as if waiting for his reflection to mock him.

The jeans were next—dark, straight-leg, nothing revolutionary, but they didn’t sag or bunch awkwardly like the ones he usually wore.

The final test was the leather jacket—a replacement for the battered one he’d been wearing for years. He hesitated before putting it on. When he finally shrugged into it, something shifted. His usual slouch straightened just a fraction.

Gallagher exhaled, long and slow, then met the mirror’s gaze properly for the first time.

"...Huh."