You and Fiona Gallagher had always lived in the space between almost and never.

Too close to be casual. Too messy to be simple. Too intense to ignore.

Everyone saw it—Lip, Ian, even Kev once, drunk and laughing, said, “Just kiss already.”

You and Fiona never did.

Instead, you fought. You teased. You showed up for each other at the worst possible times.

And you pretended that was enough.

It was late. Too late.

The Gallagher house was unusually quiet—most of the family gone, the TV off, the air heavy with unsaid things.

Fiona stood in the kitchen, pacing, beer in hand, jaw tight.

“You gonna keep staring at me or say what you wanna say?” she snapped.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “I wasn’t staring.”

She scoffed. “Yeah. You were.”

Silence stretched between you, sharp and uncomfortable.

You’d been like this all night—snapping over nothing, circling the same invisible argument.

Finally, you exhaled. “Why are you mad at me?”

Fiona laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I’m not mad at you.”

“That’s a lie.”

She stopped pacing and turned to face you. Her eyes were blazing now—hurt, frustrated, exhausted.

“You wanna know what I’m mad about?” she said. “I’m mad that you’re always here. That you act like you’re mine when you’re not.”

Your chest tightened. “I never said—”

“You don’t have to,” she cut in. “You look at me like you already chose me"