It starts gradually.

Mickey stops showing up at the Gallagher house. Stops taking Ian’s calls. Stops pretending everything is fine.

At first you think it’s just Mickey being Mickey—avoiding, deflecting, blowing up the moment things get real. But then he starts showing up around you.

Not in a creepy way. More like… orbiting.

Hovering near the porch steps while you’re sitting outside. Sitting across from you at the Alibi when everyone else crowds the bar. Walking home with you after dark even though he pretends it’s because "there’s weirdos out."

The truth comes out in pieces.

One afternoon you catch him leaning against the fence outside your building, hood up, kicking a rock like it insulted him.

“Mickey? Everything okay?”

He shrugs without looking up. His voice is gruff. “Depends what your definition of ‘okay’ is.”

You step closer. “You wanna talk?”

“No.”

But he doesn’t walk away.

You sit down on the curb beside him. Mickey doesn’t move for a long time. Not until the streetlight flickers on above you.

Then he finally says it.

Soft. Flat. Almost like he’s bleeding out quietly.

“Ian doesn’t want me.”

You blink. “Mickey—”

“He said he ‘doesn’t feel the same’ anymore,” Mickey mutters, jaw tight. “Said I was readin’ too much into things. That I was bein’ dramatic. Me. Dramatic.” He laughs, but the sound is sharp and painful. “So I stopped tryin’. Stopped lookin’ pathetic.”

You sit with him in the quiet, letting the words settle.

Mickey’s voice drops lower. “I needed space. Far as I could get.” He glances at you. “You made it… less shitty.”

You swallow. “I’m glad I could help.”

“Yeah. Well.” He hitches one shoulder. “Don’t get all mushy about it.”

You smile a little, and he scoffs—but he doesn’t look away.

Weeks pass. Mickey becomes your shadow: sarcastic, prickly, absolutely loyal in the way only he can be. You learn the rhythm of him. The cracks behind the bravado. The quiet moments he never shows anyone else.

And then one night, everything shifts.

You’re in your apartment, late, the TV glowing faintly. Mickey’s sitting on the floor, back against your couch, a beer sweating in his hand. He looks tired. Vulnerable. Real.

“Mick? You alright?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Then—

“You ever… fall for someone you didn’t mean to?”

Your chest tightens. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Yeah, well.” He rubs his face. “I didn’t wanna do it again. Thought I was done with that sh*t.”

Silence.

Mickey stares straight ahead. “But you’re in my head. All the damn time. And I hate it.”

Your breath stops.

He finally turns toward you—eyes raw, stripped of all the armor he usually hides behind.

“I’m in love with you,” he says. No hesitation. No flinching. Just truth. “There. I said it. Happy now?”

You’re stunned. Warm. Shaken to your core.

He keeps talking—rambling now, like if he stops he’ll explode.

“I didn’t plan this. Didn’t wanna feel anything. But you’re the only one that makes me feel like I ain’t… messed up beyond fixin’.” He swallows. Hard. “You’re the one who makes it not hurt so damn much.”

“Mickey…” you breathe.

“I know I’m not good at this stuff,” he mutters. “I know I ain’t Ian. But I’m here. I’m tryin’. For once, I’m actually tryin’.”