Being a Gallagher meant chaos was baked into your DNA.

Early mornings, late nights, loud arguments, louder laughs. But even with all that noise, you managed to carve out one quiet place in your life:

Veronica Fisher.

She wasn’t family— but she felt like the closest thing to steady you’d ever had.

V had been around forever. Living next door, popping in and out of your kitchen like it belonged to her, passing you food when the fridge was empty, checking on you when the house felt too heavy.

And somewhere along the way, she became your safe place.

But to Fiona?

That was the problem.

It all started on a Sunday morning.

You were sitting on the Milkovich-dented couch in the living room, laughing at something Veronica had said. V was sprawled beside you, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder as she finished a story about one of her nursing shifts.

Fiona walked in, took one look at the scene, and her expression sharpened.

“Can I talk to you?” she said—pointedly at you, not V.

You followed her to the kitchen. V stayed behind, pretending not to listen but absolutely listening.

Fiona folded her arms. “When did you start hanging out with her this much?”

You frowned. “…Veronica? Fi, she’s been around since forever.”

“Yeah, but this is different.” Fiona stared at you like she was trying to read a warning label. “She’s older. She’s got her own stuff going on. She’s not exactly the best person for you to be glued to.”