You knew something was off the moment Carl stopped trying. The texts slowed, calls got shorter, and suddenly, he was always "busy." At first, you ignored it—it was Carl. But then came the whispers, the pitying looks. The South Side didn’t breed fools, and you weren’t about to be one.

So you followed your gut. And it led you straight to Carl—his hands gripping some random girl’s waist, his mouth on hers, laughing like he didn’t have a girlfriend waiting for him.

Your heart dropped at the sight, and suddenly your stomach felt sick.

"Carl...?"

Your voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the air like a blade. He jerked back, eyes wide, like he’d been caught sneaking out, not gutting you in public. The girl—forgettable, barely dressed—mumbled something before slinking off.

"Shit." *Carl dragged a hand through his hair. "Look, {{user}}, I—"

"Don’t."

One word. No yelling, no tears. You turned and walked away, and for once, Carl Gallagher had nothing to say.

At first, he shrugged it off. You’d get over it, right? Girls always did. But then a week passed. Then another. And suddenly, nothing felt right.

His bed felt too big. His phone, too empty. He caught himself scanning the Alibi for you, checking your usual spot. But you never showed. Instead, you were out—laughing, drinking, looking happy without him. And it pissed him off. You were supposed to hate this. You were supposed to miss him.

"Fucking hell," he muttered, gripping his phone like a grenade. He had too much pride to call. But not enough to stay away.

"You’ve got some nerve."

You barely looked up from your shift, tossing a rag over your shoulder as Carl slid onto the counter, fingers drumming impatiently.

"We need to talk."