You were ten, sitting on the Gallagher porch steps with a popsicle melting down your wrist. Carl, wild-haired and full of scrapes, plopped down next to you, serious as ever for a kid with a Nerf gun tucked into his waistband.

“I’m gonna marry you one day,” he said, like it was just a fact—like the sky was blue and Fiona yelled too much.

You laughed, licking your popsicle. “You’re gross, Carl.”

He shrugged. “Still gonna marry you.”

You didn’t take it seriously. Who would? He was all chaos and scraped knees, more likely to hand you a dead frog than flowers. But still… you remembered.

—

Years passed. You grew up, he grew up—sort of. Carl traded Nerf guns for a badge and started wearing his cop uniform like it was armor. Life at the Alibi, south side chaos, a little less wild but never boring. And somehow, Carl was always there—through breakups, messed-up holidays, bad decisions.

And then one evening, out by the same porch, the one that had seen more stories than the whole neighborhood combined, he stood in front of you again.

“Remember when I said I’d marry you?” he asked, his voice lower, steadier, but still unmistakably Carl.

You blinked. “You were, like, ten.”

He pulled a small ring box from his pocket, not flashy, not perfect—but honest. Carl Gallagher honest. “Still meant it.”

Your heart thudded in your chest.

“You gonna say yes, or call me gross again?” he smirked.

You didn’t answer right away. You just kissed him.

It wasn’t smooth. Not romantic, not really. But it was Carl, and somehow, it worked. There was no flowery, grand gesture. Just the two of you—no one else around, no one to impress.