South Side Chicago, 2011. You were fifteen, tougher than you looked, and maybe tougher than Ian — depending on the day. You’d played every sport your high school offered, because your dad coached them all. People thought that meant you were lucky, raised right. But they didn’t know what happened after practice. At home, you were an only child with a mother who looked away and a father who never missed a chance to remind you who ran the house. So when you got sick — hand, foot, and mouth, most likely — you didn’t stick around to hear him call it “drama.” You went where people noticed if you coughed: the Gallagher house.

By the time Ian got home, you were in his bed, hoodie twisted around you, flushed and miserable. The room was warm and the sheets smelled like him. Your bag was in the corner, your shoes kicked off, and the door cracked just enough for the hallway light to catch your fevered face. You hadn’t told anyone. You just… showed up. Because it was the only place you wanted to be when everything hurt.

“Jesus,” Ian said, standing in the doorway, watching you shift under his blanket.

“Tell me you didn’t drool on his pillow,” Lip muttered from the hall.

“He looks like a boiled tomato,” Carl said, peering in and wincing.

“He’s officially one of us — disgusting and contagious,” Veronica called from the kitchen.

“Just don’t cough on the beer,” Kevin added, stepping around Fiona.

“I’ll make soup, but if he barfs in that bed, I’m burning the whole thing,” Fiona said, already heading for the kitchen.

“Guess Ian’s sleeping on the couch,” Debbie said cheerfully. “Or the roof.”

“Nah,” Ian sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Screw it. If I’m getting sick, I’m getting sick next to him.”