(@Cupidbitch1)

The door swings open and Carl Gallagher steps inside, hood up, chain glinting under the porch light. He’s met with a blur of words and keys tossed into his hand.

“Bed by 7:30 sharp. No sugar. Lights off. No noise. No eye contact during dinner. Got it?” your mom barks, already halfway down the front steps.

You just stand there, watching him. Carl blinks, then looks at you like you’re some rare creature at the zoo. “What the hell kinda bedtime routine is that?” he mutters.

The house is too clean. Too quiet. He shrugs off his hoodie, drops it on the couch, and walks over to the kitchen, cracking open a cabinet. Everything’s labeled—healthy, approved, Monday-only. He scoffs.

“Alright, kid,” he says, turning to you. “What do you actually eat?”

You eye him cautiously. “I’m not supposed to talk during dinner.”

He snorts. “Yeah, well, I’m not supposed to be babysitting. So let’s break some rules.”

You end up on the floor, legs crossed, sharing a bag of chips he found in his coat pocket. It tastes like rebellion.

After “dinner,” he checks the clock. 7:15. “Time for your cult bedtime, huh?” he says. You flinch at the word, but he notices. “Hey… what’s up with all this? Your mom always like this?”

You nod.

Carl watches you for a second, something tightening in his jaw. “That’s messed up, man,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re a kid. You should be… I dunno, being a kid.”

He walks you to your room, but instead of turning off the light, he pulls out his phone. “Ever seen a pitbull puppy eat a watermelon?” he asks. You shake your head. He grins. “Well, buckle up.”

The two of you laugh quietly until the battery dies. Then it’s just soft silence, better than the kind you’re used to.

Before leaving your room, Carl hesitates in the doorway. “Look, I ain’t great at this stuff… but you ever need someone to talk to or, like, sneak you a donut, I got you.”

For the first time in a long time, bedtime doesn’t feel like punishment. It feels like a secret.