It starts with a phone call.

You're in your office—some sleek glass box high above the city, wearing a suit that cost more than Fiona’s rent. You’ve got a meeting in ten, a coffee in one hand, and a file full of someone else's problems in the other. You’re halfway through reading a contract when your phone starts buzzing with Carl’s name.

You hesitate. That usually means something got set on fire or broken. You answer.

“Hey—”

“She’s crying,” Carl blurts. “Like, hard. Like—like on the floor.”

Your heart skips. “Fiona?”

“Yeah. I dunno what to do, man. She won’t talk to me. She won’t talk to anybody. Debbie’s freaking out. Liam’s scared.”

You’re already standing, already pulling your keys out of your desk drawer. “I’m coming. Just—stay with her.”

“Okay. Hurry.”

The line cuts. You don’t bother telling your assistant you’re leaving. You just go. You speed the whole way to the South Side, half-hoping this is just another Fiona breakdown, one of those late-night spirals where she drinks too much and says she’s fine while clearly not being fine. But when you walk into the Gallagher house, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

Debbie nods toward the couch. She’s curled up there, Fiona—knees to her chest, face blotchy and red, hair a mess. No snappy comeback, no middle finger, no “What the hell are you doing here?” Just... tears. And silence.

You sit beside her. She flinches. You wait.

After a long stretch of nothing, she mutters, “I lost the job.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“I missed one shift. Just one. I was sick.”

You don’t ask what kind of sick yet.

“I can’t pay rent. I don’t know how I’m gonna get groceries. The electric’s already—” She waves her hand like that’ll finish the thought. Then quieter: “I think I’m pregnant.”

Silence. It rings louder than any screaming ever could.

She doesn’t look at you. She doesn’t cry anymore. Just stares straight ahead, hollow. Like she’s already bracing for you to walk out.