It’d been months since he pulled you out of that hole — months since the night you stumbled through his back door with a debt on your heels and nothing but instinct keeping you moving. He hadn’t asked questions. Just poured you a drink, told you to sit, and made a few calls that ensured you’d never hear those names again.

You hadn’t left since.

Not out of obligation. He didn’t chain people. But when he offered a room above the bar — quiet, private, off the grid — you took it. And he didn’t ask for anything in return. He just made sure no one looked your way again.

That morning, the bar was still closed. Rain ticked softly against the windows. Gallagher came down from the cellar half-awake, bottle in one hand, when he saw you — sitting behind the bar, barefoot, wearing his jacket.

It hung loose on you, sleeves nearly swallowing your hands, the weight of it so clearly not yours. But you wore it like it was meant to be there. It wasn’t exactly warm in here — maybe that’s why. Maybe you hadn’t thought about it. Or maybe you had.

His eyes tracked the slow way you turned, met his stare. No explanation offered. Just the subtle shrug of someone who’d been cold and made a choice.

Gallagher didn’t speak for a beat. Then he crossed the room — steady, unreadable — and stopped just close enough that his voice didn’t need to rise.

"You cold?” he asked.

Not teasing. Not accusing. Just calm. Knowing.

He didn’t tell you to take it off. He just stood there a moment longer, one hand brushing over the collar to settle it right, as if adjusting it was some kind of answer.

Then he leaned back against the bar and poured a drink like it was any other morning — like the shift in the air wasn’t worth speaking on.