The kitchen was too quiet. Not the kind of quiet that meant peace—just the kind of quiet that meant something was broken.

You were sitting at the table, nursing a mug of cold coffee you’d forgotten to drink, when Fiona Gallagher slammed the front door like she was trying to shut the world out.

She didn’t even look at you.

She just stood there for a second, breathing hard, like she’d been running.

Then she walked straight past you, her shoulders tight, and leaned against the counter.

You watched her for a moment, the way she always looked when she was trying not to fall apart. Like she was holding herself together with sheer force.

Finally, you stood up.

“Fiona,” you said softly.

She didn’t respond.

You walked over and stood in front of her, close enough that you could see the red rim around her eyes.

“What happened?” you asked.

She looked up, and for a second you saw it—something raw and shattered in her expression. Then she blinked it away like she always did.

“He broke up with me,” she said, voice rough. “Like… like I’m some kind of option.”

Your chest tightened.

You’d seen Fiona hurt before. You’d seen her angry, tired, and defeated. But this—this was different. This was the kind of pain that didn’t go away with a few drinks or a fight.

You reached out and placed your hand on her arm. It was a simple touch, but it made her flinch like she didn’t know what to do with gentleness.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

She laughed once, bitter. “Don’t be. I’m used to it.”

You could feel your heart clenching.

Because you knew that wasn’t true.

Fiona Gallagher wasn’t used to being left behind.

She was used to fighting.

She was used to surviving.

But she wasn’t used to being… disposable.

You stepped closer, gently pulling her into a hug.

At first, she stiffened.

Then, slowly, she melted into you.

Her body shook against yours, like she was holding in a storm.

You held her tighter.

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t need to.

Your arms were enough.