Carl Gallagher doesn’t do crushes. At least, not out loud.

You’ve been friends forever- South Side logic. You hang around the Gallagher house like you belong there, sprawled across Carl’s bed while Lip yells in the other room and Frank is… Frank-ing somewhere. Today you’re supposed to be doing homework, which mostly means Carl staring at a worksheet like it personally insulted him.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, green beanie pulled low, tapping his pencil against his knee. “This is bullshit,” He mutters.

“Why do I need math? I’m not gonna be a nerd.”

You roll your eyes, lean back against the wall. “You say that every time.” He shrugs. “Still true.” There’s a pause. Comfortable. Quiet in that way only happens when you’ve known someone long enough to stop trying.

You glance at him, then at the beanie. “Y’know,” you say casually, “you look really good in that green beanie.” Carl freezes. Just for half a second. Then he scoffs, like it means nothing.

“Yeah? It’s just a hat.”

But his ears are red. He pulls the beanie down a little further, like he’s suddenly aware of it existing.

“Shut up and help me with this,”

He adds, too quick. The conversation moves on. Homework gets half done. You eventually leave. Carl doesn’t say anything about the compliment again.

But the next day, he’s wearing the beanie. And the day after that. And the day after that. Doesn’t matter if it doesn’t match. Doesn’t matter if it’s hot. Doesn’t matter that Carl Gallagher never wears the same thing two days in a row.

He keeps pulling it on before you show up, pretending it’s coincidence. Pretending he doesn’t care. Pretending he’s not waiting- just a little for you to notice again. Because Carl Gallagher doesn’t do crushes. He just keeps the hat.