#carlgallagherxreader

You thought it would end the way it always did—warm and hazy, the two of you chasing fireflies, daring each other off rooftops, laughing until your sides hurt. But this time, something had changed. He changed.

You didn’t know why. And God, you tried to figure it out. You cornered him on the porch once, chased him down the block another day, desperate for some kind of explanation. But every time, he’d brush you off—vanish like your presence was too much to bear.

It stung. More than you let on. So eventually, you stopped trying. And told yourself he probably just needed space.

Because you and Carl had always had your rhythm. Best friends. Partners in crime. He was the one who could crack a joke when the world felt unbearable, the one who knew when to talk and when to sit beside you in silence, hearts beating in sync.

But then came Kayla.

With her loud laugh, fake lashes, short skirts, and mile-long legs. She didn’t even go to your school, a dropout who hung around older kids. But suddenly, she was everywhere. Sitting on the Gallagher porch. Draped across Carl’s handlebars. Laughing at everything he said. Wearing his hoodie—the same one you used to steal on cold nights and pretend you didn’t care when he asked for it back.

You didn’t say anything. What could you even say?

That you were jealous?

That you wished it was you clinging to him on that rusted old bike? That you missed the way he used to look at you like you were the only person that mattered?

No. That wasn’t the deal. You were best friends. That was the line. And you were supposed to stay behind it.

So you stayed quiet.

You smiled too tightly when Debbie teased him about his girl, rolled your eyes when he said he’d be busy that weekend. When he stopped texting first, stopped waiting outside your door, stopped walking you home like it was second nature—you told yourself it didn’t matter.

But it did.

And it stung more than you wanted to admit.

You tried not to let it show. You tied to laugh it off, shrug it away like you hadn’t noticed the distance. Like you just hadn’t memorized the way his absence felt.

Late one night, you were curled up in bed, a half-read book resting in your hands, its words blurring into nothing. A flicker of movement outside your window pulled your gaze to the street.

There he was.

Carl.

Rolling his bike up the Gallagher driveway with Kayla on the back, her arms wrapped lazily around his waist, her laugh cutting through the quiet like glass. They looked like a picture.

You watched from behind the curtain, heart caught in your throat. They went inside together, Carl holding the door open like it was instinct.

You felt that pit deep in your stomach. That sinking ache you couldn’t name. And you found yourself wondering, Are they serious?

As far as you knew, Carl had never really been with anyone. Girls either got scared off by his reckless, half-wild charm, or he shut them down before they even got close. He was never the type to get attached.

But maybe this time was different.

Maybe she was different.

And maybe that’s what scared you most.

That night, you stood in front of the mirror, staring at your reflection like it might give you answers. You couldn’t help but compare. Kayla was taller, tanned, with long blonde hair that always looked effortless, like it belonged in some music videos. You tried to mimic her look, digging out old makeup and dragging eyeliner across your lids, but it only ended in smudged lines and frustration.

You looked like a raccoon.

You scoffed. Of course.

The last time you wore eyeliner, Carl had laughed and called you that. You swore you'd never try again. And now here he was, dating a full-blown raccoon girl? The irony was almost funny.

All men do is lie, you thought bitterly, rolling your eyes at your reflection. You wiped the makeup off with the back of your hand, more annoyed than you wanted to admit.

The next morning, you told yourself you were heading to the Gallaghers early because you wanted to invite Debbie to the local pool. That was the reason. Not Carl. Definitely not Carl.

But when you got there, Debbie was at the table, halfway through breakfast and spoon-feeding Liam. “I’ve got stuff to do today,” she said with a shrug, not even looking up.

You lingered anyway, trying to convince her—offering to help Liam, tossing out half-baked plans for snacks by the pool—but she was barely listening.

A voice suddenly chimed in from behind.

“Carl and I are going this morning. You can come with us if you want.”

You turned.

It was Kayla.

You fought the flicker of surprise crawling up your face, keeping it as neutral as you could. Slowly, you looked back at Debbie, lowering your voice. “Did she… sleep here?”

Debbie didn’t answer. She just glanced at the couch, then back at her cereal.

You sighed. Somehow, that didn’t make you feel better.

Rolling your eyes, you turned to Kayla, forcing a tight smile. “No, thanks. I can go by myself.”

You didn’t wait for a response. You didn’t need one.

Carl came downstairs. You didn’t look up, focusing on your pancake, pretending Liam’s giggles were more interesting.

Later, you went to the pool alone. The sun was high, the water loud with splashes and laughter. Across the pool, Carl and Kayla sat close, talking—serious and quiet. He never talked to you like that. With you, it was always teasing, grins, chaos.

You sat at the edge, legs in the water, watching them. Your stomach twisted. You sighed, slipped into the pool, and swam, trying to shake the feeling.

After swimming for a while, you climbed out of the pool, wrapping a towel around yourself. As you adjusted it, a guy around your age approached.

"Hey, I know you. You're in my social studies class," he said.

You looked up, recognizing him. "Dylan, right?"

"Yep. So... are you free later?"

You hesitated. The idea of going out didn't really appeal to you. But then you thought of Carl and Kayla, always together, always having fun. Why should they have all the fun?

"I think so," you replied. "Why?"

"There's a party at Glenn's. You in?"

You paused, then nodded. "Sure. Later tonight?"

"Cool. See you there." He offered a fist for a bump, which you returned with a smile.

As he walked away, you glanced across the pool. Carl was on the other side, watching you intently while Kayla chatted animatedly beside him. You scoffed, turned your back, and left.

That night at the party, you chatted with Dylan for a bit before he drifted off into the crowd. Standing alone, you felt awkward, surrounded by familiar faces from school yet feeling out of place. Seeking some air, you stepped into the backyard, where the party had extended.

Yellow string lights hung like lazy fireflies above, casting a soft glow. Couples were making out in the shadows, and the sight made you feel even more out of place. You sat on a bench, sipping a beer, trying to ignore the discomfort settling in.

You hated this feeling—feeling obligated to sit with emotions you'd been trying to avoid.

Your eyes wandered back to the house.

Carl, standing at the back door, drink in hand, watching you. You locked eyes across the space, the quiet between you louder than the music. There was something in his stare—recognition, maybe. Or regret. You weren’t really... sure.

Dylan suddenly stepped into view, cutting off your line of sight.

"Hey, I've been looking for you," he said with a smile.

You nodded, gesturing toward the lights. "It's nice out here."

"Romantic, huh?" he replied, taking a seat beside you.

You and Dylan talked for the rest of the night. He was honestly easy to be around. He wwas funny, thoughtful, and chill. There was a depth to him that made the conversation flow effortlessly, providing a welcome distraction from everything else.

The party had ended, and Dylan walked you home through the quiet streets. You walked side by side, the night broken by the occasional wail of sirens or the rumble of the El overhead.

It reminded you of Carl. He used to walk you home like this—shoulder brushing against yours, cracking jokes, throwing rocks at stop signs.

You frowned and scoffed quietly to yourself. Screw that prick.

“Hey…” Dylan said, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Huh?”

“Did you hear what I said?” he asked, looking at you curiously.

A wave of embarrassment hit you. He’d been talking, and you hadn’t heard a word—too busy spiraling back into thoughts of someone who didn’t deserve the space in your head.

“Sorry, I wasn’t listening,” you admitted with a small wince.

He smiled, unbothered. “It’s cool. It’s late anyway. You’re probably tired.”

“Yeah… a little,” you said as you reached your house. “But thank you—for tonight. I really enjoyed hanging out with you.”

“I’m glad,” he said, flashing a smile. “Get some rest.”

You smiled back, his energy still light even after the long night. After saying your goodbyes, you turned to head inside.

But then you noticed Carl’s bedroom window lit up across the street. The blinds were open, and there he was, standing in the glow of his room, looking straight at you.

You stared for a second, your chest tightening. He’d spent weeks pushing you away, pretending like you didn’t exist. And now that you weren’t chasing him anymore, he couldn’t stop watching?

You found yourself at the Gallaghers again the next night. Some sort of celebration—not that you knew exactly what for. At the Gallaghers’, even the smallest excuse was enough for a party.

The whole crew was there, Fiona, Lip, Debbie, Ian, V, Kevin and Carl. Even Frank, though he was already slurring and half-asleep on the stairs. The house buzzed with music, dancing, weed smoke, and laughter spilling through the rooms.

You stood in the kitchen with Liam, helping him with a plate of food. Despite everything, despite how distant Carl had been, this moment almost felt like things were normal again. He was on the couch with Lip, beer in hand, head tilted back in laughter. If this had been a few weeks ago, he would’ve been right here beside you.

You caught yourself staring. Lip must’ve noticed, because a moment later, he looked your way. You blinked and quickly turned, grabbing your drink and taking a long sip—grimacing at the bitter taste of the cheap beer.

Without a word, Lip appeared next to you and set a glass of juice on the counter.

“Don’t torture yourself,” he said, nodding at the beer. “Drink this instead.”

You took a sip. Yeah, it was way better. You gave a small nod of thanks.

Lip leaned casually against the counter. “You know, I never really got why you like him.”

You froze for a beat, then glanced over at Carl, who was now laughing at something Kevin said.

A sigh escaped you. “I feel like... one of those girls who used to chase after you.”

Lip smirked. “Girls chased me?”

“Oh, please. You know I've seen them.” You rolled your eyes with a laugh, and he joined in.

But then his tone softened. “Seriously… you’re better than this. Whatever Carl’s deal is—he’s being an ass.”

You looked down, pressing your lips together before offering a small smile. “Maybe. But… I know him. He must have his reasons.”

Lip studied you for a second, then sighed and gently ruffled your hair. “Alright, kid. Just don’t let him drag you down.”

And with that, he was gone—back to Fiona, leaving you in the kitchen with Liam and the hum of a house that never really quieted down.

Then—snap.

Your chain slipped, and the bike bucked sideways. You landed hard on the curb, skinning your elbow and launching the Popsicle straight onto the street. It made a pathetic splop before oozing into a puddle.

You sat there, biting the inside of your cheek. Frustration burned hotter than the sun. Your elbow throbbed, your bike chain hung useless, and your snack was bleeding out onto the asphalt.

Of course he saw.

Carl Gallagher strolled up from nowhere, like he’d been summoned by your misery.

He didn’t exactly laugh. He just raised a brow like he was trying to decide if this was funny or sad.

“Don’t cry, princess.”

You looked up at him, scowling. “I’m not crying.”

“Didn’t say you were. Just figured I’d get ahead of it.”

He crouched beside your bike without waiting for permission. Carl had that annoying habit—acting like everything belonged to him, like the world would just move out of his way.

“I don't need your help,” you muttered.

“Not helping,” he said, already tugging the chain back into place. “Just bored.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t stop him. His fingers moved fast, smeared with grease and dirt like they’d never been clean a day in his life.

“Cherry Popsicle?” he asked, nodding at the red smear on the road.

You sighed. “Yeah.”

“Trash flavor.”

When the chain was back on, he stood and wiped his hands on his shirt like it didn’t matter.

You tested the pedals. Good as new.

Carl started to walk off, already half-distracted by something in the distance.

“Hey,” you called.

He turned.

You hesitated, “Thanks.”

He just smirked. That little half-grin he did when he thought he had you figured out.

“Try not to eat it next time,” he said. “You fall like a baby deer.”

You flipped him off.

He laughed.

You rolled your eyes lazily—hated that it made you want to smile.

A week after the pool incident, you scraped your knee racing some neighborhood kid down the block on a scooter with one busted wheel. You lost, obviously. And now you were sulking on the Gallagher’s porch steps, holding a melting bag of ice to your leg that Debbie had given you.

Carl was already out there, half-laying, half-sitting with his legs stretched out, chewing on a red licorice rope like it owed him money. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you with a raised eyebrow.

“What happened to you?” he finally asked.

You gave a lazy shrug. “Gravity.”

He snorted. “Looks like gravity won.”

You smirked. “Like you’d do any better.”

“I wouldn’t have eaten pavement.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Silence for a moment. The sky above was starting to turn that soft, late-summer blue, and you could hear someone’s radio playing two houses down.

Carl leaned back on his elbows, eyes squinting at nothing. “You cry about it?”

You looked at him sideways. “Do I look like I cried?”

He tilted his head like he was thinking about it. “Maybe a little.”

You threw a piece of ice at his face.

He dodged it, grinning, then said with a mouthful of licorice, “Don’t cry, princess.”

But it wasn’t mean when he said it. Not like it used to be. It was... something else now.

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t get up. You didn’t snap back. You just stayed there beside him, letting the quiet settle between you.

He handed you the other half of his licorice without looking at you. And without thinking, you took it. You bite into it, raising your eyebrows at him while he stares back, half-grinning.

The sun was starting to dip low, casting everything in that golden, syrupy kind of light. The kind that made even the Southside look like it was holding its breath. You were walking with Debbie, her voice running a mile a minute about some kid at daycare who tried to flush a plastic dinosaur down the toilet.

You were half-listening, half-watching how the light turned the cracks in the pavement orange. It smelled like hot concrete and someone grilling a few blocks away.

He came up on your other side like he’d always been walking with you, like he belonged there. He didn’t say anything, and flicked a pebble ahead of him with the toe of his sneaker.

You suddenly heard shoes scuffing the sidewalk, a lazy kind of shuffle. You didn’t even have to turn around.

Debbie rolled her eyes. “Why are you here?”

Carl shrugged. “You’re boring. She’s funnier.” He jerked his head toward you, and you blinked.

Debbie narrowed her eyes at him, then turned to you. “Don’t believe anything he says. He still thinks dinosaurs are fake.”

“They are fake,” Carl said flatly, kicking another pebble. “It’s just big bones people glue together and pretend about.”

You snorted— youcouldn’t help it. Carl looked over, smug. “See? She gets it.”

You shook your head, trying to hide your smile. The three of you kept walking, and even though Carl kept bumping your shoulder every few steps and Debbie kept snapping at him to quit it, you didn’t mind. The air felt warm against your skin, the sky turning soft orange and pink above the rooftops.

At one point, Carl broke off to climb someone’s low fence just to walk along the top of it, arms out like he was balancing on a tightrope. He jumped down when you passed under a tree and pulled a small branch free, handing it to you like a weird little gift.

“Here,” he said. “You look like the type who keeps stuff like this.”

You blinked down at it. It was dumb. And kind of sweet. And very Carl.

“Don’t cry,” he added with a smirk. “It’s just a stick.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t throw it away.

When the sky darkened into purples and the streetlights blinked on, you realized you hadn’t noticed the time passing. The hours had just slipped by, quiet and simple.

You looked at the small branch Carl gave you and shook your head. Feeling weird.

Debbie’s birthday wasn’t anything huge—just pizza, a cake, and a few mismatched streamers Carl had hung up crooked on purpose. But it felt nice. Loud, a little messy, but nice. Like being tucked into the middle of something that didn’t expect you to be perfect.

That night, the Gallagher living room was scattered with blankets, empty soda cans, and the remnants of popcorn that Carl had mostly thrown instead of shared. The Monopoly board sat abandoned on the coffee table—half the fake money was missing, and Carl had stormed off after landing in jail for the third time.

“This game sucks,” he grumbled, sprawled upside down on the couch.

“You just suck at it,” you shot back, tossing a pillow at his face.

He caught it midair, smirking. “I vote truth or dare. Way more fun.”

Debbie perked up from where she was painting her nails. “Only if no one makes me eat gross stuff again.”

Carl’s grin widened. “No promises.”

So that’s what it turned into—truth or dare, but with Southside rules. No chicken-outs. No skips. The game that always started harmless and ended in either tears, laughter, or someone threatening to jump out a window.

It started light. Debbie dared Carl to prank-call the corner store and ask if they sold bras for ferrets. He did it with zero shame, even added a fake accent. You were dared to walk around the backyard in Frank’s giant rain boots singing “Single Ladies” while holding a plastic sword. The three of you were already breathless with laughter ten minutes in.

Then it got a little messier.

Carl dared Debbie to drink an entire glass of orange juice mixed with pickle juice and hot sauce. She nearly puked and threatened to burn his shoes.

You dared Carl to try to do a handstand against the fridge—and he tried. Nearly knocked down a shelf and bruised his elbow, but he played it cool like he’d meant to fall.

And then came the questions.

Debbie leaned in, eyes narrowed with that mischievous little sister glint. “Alright. Truth: if you had to kiss someone in this room, who would it be?”

Carl threw a popcorn kernel at her. “I’m not answering that.”

“Chicken,” you teased, raising your brows.

He looked at you, then back at Debbie. “Fine. The couch.”

Debbie groaned. “Lame.”

You didn’t say anything, just laughed a little, but your heart was definitely moving faster than before. Not that you’d admit it.

When it was your turn and someone picked truth, Debbie didn’t even hesitate.

“Be honest. Who’s your first Southside crush?”

Your eyes flicked to Carl for a split second. He was picking at a thread in the couch cushion, like he wasn’t listening. But you could see his jaw twitch just slightly.

You rolled your eyes. “Easy. No one. Everyone here smells like gasoline and cigarettes.”

That made Debbie snort and fall sideways into a pillow. Carl didn’t look up, but you saw the smallest curve of a smile pull at the corner of his mouth.

He was lying flat on the floor now, legs propped up on the couch cushion, tossing a candy wrapper in the air and catching it again and again.

“Worst dare you ever got?” you asked, voice low.

He didn’t look at you. “This kid in third grade dared me to jump out of a moving ice cream truck.”

You blinked. “Did you do it?”

He glanced at you now, eyes half-lidded. “I got two stitches. But I got free ice cream for a week after that.”

You laughed.

And somewhere between the stupid dares and shared glances, the warmth of the night lingered. Not just from the blankets or the summer air sneaking through the window, but from something else..

The house eventually went still, the only sound the occasional snore or the creak of old floorboards.

You weren’t asleep, not yet. You turned over to face the couch, just as Carl did the same from the floor below.

In the dark, his voice came low, almost a whisper. “You really didn’t have a crush?”

You blinked. “I said what I said.”

He was quiet for a beat, then,

“Liar.”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t deny it, either.

The room was heavy with the kind of silence that only shows up when everyone else is asleep. Debbie had knocked out awhile ago, curled up in a pile of blankets on the floor, hugging a stuffed animal.

Carl let out a breath, eyes on the ceiling. “You remember that dude who tried to sell us ‘designer air’ in a ziplock bag?”

You blinked, then looked at him. “Oh my god—Gas Mask Gary?”

Carl cracked a grin. “He said it was imported from Beverly Hills.”

You tried to hold it in, but the memory hit too hard. A laugh escaped before you could catch it, and Carl lost it too, shaking with silent laughter. You both curled up into yourselves, hands over your mouths, trying not to wake anyone.

Just then, Fiona’s door creaked open down the hall—then shut again, slow and deliberate.

Your eyes widened. You threw a blanket over your head. Carl grabbed a cushion and shoved it into his face, the sound of his stifled laugh vibrating through the fabric.

For a moment, the room was a mess of muffled giggles and breathless silence, like being kids again sneaking cookies at midnight.

Carl stayed where he was on the floor, lying flat now, one arm folded under his head. You could hear the faint sound of a siren a few blocks away and the hum of a box fan rattling against the window.

He tilted his head toward you, eyes catching the glow from a streetlamp leaking through the curtains. “Truth again,” he said, voice low like he didn’t want to wake the house.

You looked at him from where you sat cross-legged on the couch, one hand resting on your knee. “You just asked one.”

He shrugged. “So?”

You sighed, smirking despite yourself. “Fine. Shoot.”

He didn’t smile this time. Just looked at you.

“Why do you let me hang around now?”

You paused.

That one caught you a little off guard. Maybe because you weren’t sure of the answer yourself. Or maybe because you’d thought he already knew.

“I don’t know,” you said, after a moment. “You’re still annoying.”

“Yeah, but now you roll your eyes and stay. Before, you’d roll your eyes and walk away.”

You picked at the hem of your sleep shorts, pretending to think harder than you needed to. “I guess... you’re not always the worst.”

His lips twitched. “Wow. High praise.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was almost nice. Familiar. Like the sound of the Gallagher house settling around you had become part of your summer nights—squeaky floorboards, cars speeding down the block, someone’s baby crying in the distance.

“We should write something on our hands,” you said, holding up the marker with a mischievous glint.

Carl raised an eyebrow, already smirking. “Only if we write on each other.”

You rolled your eyes, catching the way his smirk tugged higher. “Of course you’d say that.”

He grabbed the flashlight and ducked under a white blanket, flipping it on so it cast a warm, secretive glow inside. “C’mon,” he said, peeking out. “This is a sacred art ritual. Can’t do it out in the open.”

With a dramatic sigh, you crawled under after him, settling beside him on the pillow-strewn floor. The air under the blanket was warmer, filled with that weird mix of detergent, old carpet, and him.

“Alright, go,” you said, offering your wrist. “But make it cool or I swear—”

“You gotta close your eyes. For suspense,” he said, trying to sound serious but already grinning.

“Lame.”

“This is your idea,” he said, nudging your knee with his. “Just close your eyes.”

You huffed. “Fine,” you muttered, biting your lip as you felt the cold tip of the Sharpie touch your skin. His hand cupped yours to steady it, and something about that small, quiet contact made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t expecting.

“Done,” Carl whispered, clearly trying not to burst out laughing.

You opened your eyes and immediately scowled. “Carl!” you half-whispered, half-laughed.

He’d drawn a penis on your wrist. The most ridiculous, lopsided cartoon one imaginable.

Carl threw his arm over his mouth, his body shaking as he tried to hold back the laughter. You glared at him, though you were already breaking too.

“You’re disgusting.”

“You’re welcome.”

You grabbed the sharpie from him and shoved him back onto the cushions, straddling his legs as you popped the cap off. “Your turn.”

Carl didn’t even flinch. He looked up at you, totally still, his eyes never leaving your face.

You leaned in and started drawing and writing something, the sharpie gliding smoothly over his forehead. You were barely holding it together, lips pressed tight to keep from laughing.

He didn’t ask questions, just watching you.

When you were done, you sat back on your heels and smirked. “Perfect.”

Carl grinned. “What is it?”

“You’ll see in the morning.”

And scrawled across his forehead, in bold black ink:

"Kisses girls and cries about it."

With a crooked little heart for good measure.

You both sat under the blanket, the flashlight between you casting shadows across your faces. You couldn’t help but laugh—at your wrist, at his forehead, at how stupid and funny it all was.

Carl glanced at your wrist again, cracking up. “It looks even worse in the light,” he wheezed.

You doubled over laughing, holding your stomach, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. “Yours is art,” you said, gasping.

But then—he stopped laughing.

Just like that.

You noticed the shift before you even looked up, like the air had pulled still again. You turned your head to find him already watching you.

Your smile faded, slow and uncertain. “What?”

If you leaned in, you might find something waiting for you.

He didn’t answer. Hr just kept looking at you. And something about the way his eyes softened, the way his smirk had slipped, made your heart thump once, low and loud in your chest. It wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t obvious—but at the back of your mind, there was a whisper.

Then Carl smirked, voice low and smooth. “Debbie’s next.”

Just like that, the moment blinked away like it never happened.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, rolling your eyes. “She’s gonna kill you.”

He grinned, leaning back like he wasn’t just staring straight through you a second ago. “Worth it.”

“I could’ve just gone to sleep,” he said after a while, like it just occurred to him.

“You still can,” you offered, even though you didn’t want him to.

But he shook his head. “Nah. Not tired.”

You looked down at Debbie, snoring lightly in her blanket burrito. “She’ll be pissed when she sees her face in the mirror.”

Carl smirked. “She’ll blame you.”

“She'll blame you.” You smirked back.

A beat passed. Then Carl pushed himself up off the floor and joined you on the couch, settling beside you, knees brushing. He leaned his head back against the cushion and sighed.

You didn’t move.

He handed you the last fruit roll-up from the stash you found earlier, unwrapping one for himself. You bit into it, raising your eyebrows at him as he stared back, half-smirking like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

“Truth,” you said, licking sugar from your thumb.

He glanced at you. “Alright.”

“Have you ever had a crush on someone?”

Carl groaned, throwing his head back. “Lame.”

“You picked the game,” you reminded him.

He hesitated just long enough to make your stomach flutter.

“Yeah,” he said finally.

You blinked. “Oh.”

He turned to look at you. “You gonna ask who?”

“Should I?”

He shrugged. “Probably not.”

Something in your chest did a weird flip, but you ignored it. He didn’t say anything else, letting that stupid smirk tug at the corner of his mouth again.

But none of that mattered to Mr. Dunlap. He walked into class, saw the stink bomb already rolling under the desk, and then looked right at you like it made perfect sense. Like you were finally showing your true colors.

Never mind that you were frozen in your seat, mid-sentence in your stupid group project, or that your lab partner—Carl Gallagher—was nowhere to be found when the stink hit the fan. All it took was your name being next to his on the project sheet.

You tried to explain. Told them it wasn’t you. That you didn’t even know where Carl was during the second half of class.

But Dunlap wasn’t having it. “You were responsible for the materials. The project was under your name. Take accountability.”

Accountability. Like you were supposed to babysit Carl and finish the assignment and dodge the social suicide of being the only one who actually cared about your grades.

So now you were here. In detention. With gum stuck to the underside of your desk, a cracked window that didn’t open all the way, and a teacher too checked out to even notice if you slipped out the back door.

You were halfway through your mental list of “reasons I should drop out and join the circus” when the classroom door creaked open.

And of course. Of course.

Carl Gallagher walked in like he was late to a party, hoodie slung halfway off his shoulder, that same smug look painted across his face like graffiti on a train.

Your jaw tightened.

He wasn’t on the detention list. You knew he wasn’t, because you checked—twice. He wasn’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t even his punishment. It was yours.

And yet, he slid right into the desk next to you like it was reserved.

“Seriously?” you hissed under your breath as he dropped into the seat.

He shrugged. “Heard you were in here.”

You stared at him.

“Decided to join.”

“You what?”

Carl grinned, leaning back like this was fun for him. “Figured if I’m the reason you got screwed, might as well suffer with you. Solidarity, y’know?”

You blinked at him. “You’re insane.”

He tipped his head. “You’re not denying it.”

You rolled your eyes and turned back toward the front, jaw clenched. He's an absolute disaster.

There was a beat of silence. Then a quiet flick.

You glanced down. He had slipped a folded piece of paper across your desk.

You hesitated, then opened it.

Could’ve warned you I left the stink bomb in my hoodie pocket. Thought you saw me switch bags.

You picked up your pen, scribbled under it.

I was doing the worksheet. Like a normal human being. What part of this is funny to you?

He wrote back.

The part where you’re here and I get to bother you.

You’re literally the worst.

No, that guy in second period who eats his erasers is the worst. I’m like... top five, max.

You bit your lip to keep from smiling. But he noticed.

Another note slid your way.

You looked mad earlier.

You scribbled.

Because I was. I am.

Didn’t mean to get you in trouble.

You paused, rereading that line, felt too direct and real.

When you looked up at him, he wasn’t smiling anymore.

He was watching you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered.

He blinked. “Like what?”

“Like you didn’t just explode my afternoon and get me detention for something you did.”

Carl leaned in slightly, chin resting on his folded arms. “Didn’t think you’d actually get blamed.”

“Well, I did.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s messed up.”

You were about to snap back—sarcastic, sharp, something that would make him shut up—but then he added, quieter,

“I told Dunlap it was me. Said I’d left something in your bag. But he said it was too late. Already logged.”

You froze.

“…You did?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged again, casual, like it didn’t matter at all. “He said I could serve it anyway if I felt guilty.”

You stared at him, throat tightening with something you didn’t have a name for.

Carl Gallagher didn’t do guilt. He did chaos. He did wild stunts and dumb grins and running from responsibility like it owed him money.

But here he was. Serving detention next to you. Voluntarily.

“…That’s stupid,” you said finally. He didn't have to do that.

He looked at you, a smirk ghosting across his lips.

“You think I wanna spend an hour with a bunch of mouth-breathers in the courtyard?”

You stared.

He grinned. “At least here I get to bother you and steal your snacks.”

You rolled your eyes again, but this time it came with a small, involuntary smile.

The school hallway was almost silent by the time detention ended—just the low buzz of flickering lights and the occasional shuffle of a janitor cart echoing in the distance.

You stepped out of the classroom, shoulders tense, backpack slung low and heavy on your spine. Your name was still scribbled on the detention sheet for something you didn’t even do—and even though Carl sat through it with you, he hadn’t looked even a little guilty.

He was waiting by the water fountain, messing with the spout, trying to spray it sideways like some bored kindergartener. When he saw you, he grinned like nothing happened.

“You're welcome,” he said, casually tossing a rubber band at your chest.

You stopped walking. “For what? Getting me detention?”

“For making it less boring,” he shrugged, falling into step beside you like it was natural. “Could’ve let you suffer alone.”

You rolled your eyes, too tired to argue. The day had been long, and your patience had been thin even before the teacher decided you were the one who planted the stink bomb during science experiment.

“What’s your problem, anyway?” you muttered, tugging your backpack strap tighter. “Do you just like dragging people into your chaos?”

He smirked. “Nah. Just you.”

He held your gaze for a beat too long, then turned and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“C’mon,” he said. “Take the shortcut.”

“That’s not the way to my house.”

“It’s still faster.”

“I literally live across the street from you.”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “We’ll get there together. Like neighbors.”

You hesitated, then sighed and started walking. But before you could even take five steps, Carl suddenly yanked your backpack strap from your shoulder.

“Hey!” you said, half-turning. “Give it back!”

“Nope.” He slung it over his own shoulder with ease, ignoring your glare. “You’re tired. And you looked like you were gonna tip over. I’m doing you a favor.”

“I didn’t ask for a favor.”

“You also didn’t ask for detention, and yet—here we are.”

You tried grabbing it back, but he twisted away and started walking faster.

“Carl,” you warned.

He looked over his shoulder. “What?”

“Give me my bag.”

He stopped, turned around, and raised his brows. “Say please.”

You stared at him, unamused.

He gave you the most smug, awful grin.

“Fine,” you muttered. “Carry it, then. But if you drop it, I’m putting gum in your hoodie.”

Carl beamed like you’d just declared your love.

“You’re so sweet to me.”

“Shut up.”

The shortcut was more of a back alley behind the strip of old garages, cutting between houses and popping out onto your block. You’d walked it before, but only in the daytime. Now, with the sky turning burnt orange and the streetlights flickering on, it felt a little different.

Carl kicked a soda can down the path like a soccer ball. You watched it rattle forward, bounce off a fence, and roll into a puddle.

“You ever think about not being such a menace?” you asked after a while.

“All the time,” he said. “Doesn’t stick.”

You laughed. You didn’t mean to, but you did—and Carl glanced overl. Like he was surprised by you, and that you weren’t someone he could just poke fun at anymore.

“I didn’t even do anything,” you muttered. “And I still got detention.”

Carl didn’t say anything for awhile. He Just pulled a bag of chips from his hoodie pocket and held it out to you.

You looked at him.

“What?”

“I’m not eating your alley pocket chips.”

“They’re hoodie chips. Relax.”

You snorted. But you took one.

He bumped your shoulder. “I didn’t mean for you to get caught. I swear.”

“You never mean it,” you said, licking salt from your fingers. “That’s the problem.”

“Yeah, well... You looked like you needed a break from being a goody-goody.”

You gave him a flat stare. He grinned again, boyish and sharp.

A few minutes passed. The sun dipped lower. Carl walked beside you, surprisingly quiet. Just chewing. Thinking. Then he said,

“You didn’t have to stay, you know. In detention.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You kinda did.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you kicked the can he’d been dribbling and watched it clatter down the alley.

“Why’d you come?” you asked. “You didn’t get caught. I was the only name on the list.”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Felt like it.”

You stopped walking.

He did too, slowly, realizing you weren’t following.

“You got yourself in trouble,” you said, “on purpose.”

Carl looked back at you, turning his whole body.

“Maybe,” he said. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’ve got that look—like I’m some tragic raccoon or something.”

You huffed. “That’s specific.”

“Yeah, well,” he looked at you now, lips twitching, “I know your looks.”

He took a step forward, then adjusted your backpack higher on his shoulder like it was his all along.

“Anyway. You’re welcome.”

“Umh I'm not exactly thankful.”

“For not letting you be alone, dummy.”

You wanted to say something back—something sharp, something clever—but nothing came. So you just walked beside him the rest of the way in silence.

And when you reached your block, the streetlights had blinked on. Reaching the corner where you usually split ways, Carl paused, then handed you your backpack without a word.

You stared at him. He scratched the back of his neck.

“Next time,” he said, avoiding your eyes, “just throw the stink bomb before the teacher walks in. Rookie mistake.”

You didn’t smile. But you didn’t stop him when he smirked and jogged off down the block, hoodie flapping behind him, already yelling something crude at a passing car.

And you stood there, for a second too long, wondering why your chest felt kind of warm.

Like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t so mad after all.

It was freezing in the classroom. The heating barely worked, and the windows let in more wind than they kept out. You sat curled into yourself, arms crossed tight, trying to take notes without letting your teeth chatter too loudly.

Across the room, Carl sat in his usual slouch—looking completely unaffected. Probably because he never followed the dress code and always wore that stupid hoodie with the sleeves chewed up and the words half faded.

During group work, the teacher made everyone switch partners. You ended up with some kid who kept talking about Minecraft and forgot his pencil. Carl got stuck with the girl who wore glitter eyeshadow and always called him “Gallagross.”

Halfway through the worksheet, your nose was running, your fingers numb. You sniffled and rubbed your hands together. Then, out of nowhere, something landed on your desk.

Carl’s hoodie.

You blinked.

“What,” you said flatly, looking up at him.

He didn’t look at you. Just muttered, “You’re shaking. You’re annoying when you’re cold.”

You stared.

“Take it or don’t,” he added, already walking back to his seat.

It smelled like smoke and bubble gum, but you tugged it on anyway. It was warm. Way too big, but warm.

You didn’t say thank you.

But that was the first time you stopped wishing he’d disappear entirely.

The final bell rang. Chairs scraped back. Everyone shoved notebooks into bags and made a run for it.

Carl was out the door before the teacher even finished their last sentence. Typical.

You moved slower, mostly because your bones still felt like ice cubes. As you swung your bag over your shoulder, you noticed something on Carl’s chair.

A beat-up notebook.

The cover was half-ripped, corners bent, and someone—probably Carl himself—had drawn a stick figure getting eaten by a monster on the front. You grabbed it, sighing. He’d probably accuse you of stealing it tomorrow if you didn’t bring it back.

Outside, the sky had gone from gloomy to apocalyptic. Wind howled through the parking lot, and a second later, rain came hammering down like it had been waiting for the exact moment you stepped out.

You ducked under the stairwell ledge out front, shaking water from your sleeves. The jacket—his jacket—was still wrapped around you.

A few seconds later, Carl appeared, hoodie-less, dripping wet.

“Nice,” he said dryly, shaking his head like a dog. “You jinxed it.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He flopped onto the bottom step, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his chin there. You stayed at the top, hugging your bag.

The rain came down harder.

You tried not to feel bad about the jacket. Really, you did. It was his fault for giving it to you. And besides, it wasn’t like he didn’t make your life hell on a weekly basis. If anything, this was interest.

Still, when he sneezed into his sleeve, you winced.

You sat on the top step of the stairwell, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, knees tucked up to your chest. The rain hit the metal door a floor below like tiny pebbles, steady and annoying. You didn’t want to admit you were cold again. Especially not while wearing Carl Gallagher’s hoodie.

He was sitting a few steps down, elbows on his knees, head leaned back like he’d melt into the concrete. He hadn’t said anything since the “You jinxed it” comment. Just sat there, half-shivering and pretending he wasn’t.

Your eyes drifted to the notebook in your lap—the one he’d left behind in class like it meant nothing. The cover was scuffed and bent, and the edges were soft from being shoved into a backpack too many times. You flipped it open.

The first page was chaos.

Scribbles, mostly. Some doodles of knives. A very crude drawing of someone falling down stairs labeled “Mr. Reyes when he doesn’t give Carl extra time on tests.” A page with nothing but the word “ASSHOLE” in different fonts. Another with a list:

Debbie owes me 4 dollars

Get back at the chick for calling me Gallagross

Punch Ian (lovingly)

Ask that new girl if she’s scared of possums

You snorted.

“Are you seriously reading my stuff right now?” Carl said, not even looking up.

“It was just sitting there.”

“Yeah. 'Cause I forgot it. That’s not an invitation.”

You flipped another page, ignoring him. This one was… different.

There was a sketch of a dog—kind of boxy, kind of cute—with the name “Meatball” written in all caps underneath. The dog had a speech bubble that said “Screw school.” You almost smiled.

Another page had a drawing of a fridge with a lock on it and the words “REAL FOOD” scrawled across the door. Below that, there was a weird list:

A house with no yelling

A TV that works

Shoes that match

A dog (Meatball)

Some girl to shut up for five seconds maybe

You paused.

Carl finally turned his head. “That’s, like… old. From summer.”

You didn’t say anything. You gently closed the notebook and placed it between you on the step.

“You’re annoying when you’re nosy,” he muttered.

“You’re annoying when you breathe,” you shot back.

He huffed a laugh but didn’t argue.

Before either of you could say something else, the door creaked open and a teacher poked her head in—Ms. Appleton, the sub who always wore weird earrings shaped like vegetables.

“Oh! You two are still here?” she blinked. “Did you miss your bus?”

You and Carl said absolutely nothing.

Ms. Appleton gave you both a look and tapped the wall. “Well, don’t stay too long or you’ll get locked in. Also—Carl, no graffiti this time.”

“I didn’t do that one,” Carl said, which probably meant he definitely did.

She left. The door slammed shut behind her.

Carl leaned back again with a sigh. “Great. Now she’s gonna tell Lip I’m ‘loitering.’”

You didn’t reply, and stared at the rain and hugged your knees tighter.

It was still raining when the last bell echoed faintly through the halls. You peeked out the doors, the hoodie pulled over your head like it could somehow transform into an umbrella.

“Great,” you muttered.

Carl stood behind you, hands shoved in his pockets. He looked just as thrilled about it as you did. His hair was already damp, little curls sticking to his forehead.

You glanced sideways. “No umbrella?”

He gave you a look like you’d just asked if he owned a yacht.

You both stood there for a second, watching the rain soak the cracked pavement and flood the corners of the sidewalk.

“Well,” you sighed, pulling the hoodie tighter, “guess I’ll just swim home.”

Carl snorted. “You’d drown in like two inches of water.”

“Says the kid who eats glue.”

“That was one time, and it was experimental.”

You shook your head and took a step out. Cold raindrops immediately slapped your face like nature itself had beef. You froze, turned around, and walked right back inside.

Carl grinned, smug. “Told you.”

“Oh, shut up,” you muttered, dripping.

He looked out again, then shrugged. “Wanna race to the bodega on the corner?”

“You’ll probably trip on purpose and pretend I pushed you.”

“No promises.”

But you were both too cold to wait any longer, so you did it—you ran for it. You didn’t even make it halfway before your shoes were soaked and Carl stepped in a puddle the size of a baby pool and screamed something like “I HATE CHICAGO” with all the passion of a war general.

You ducked under a tiny awning together, both panting, soaked, shivering, and looking like soggy raccoons.

Carl pushed his wet bangs out of his face. “You stole my hoodie and made me get hypothermia. You’re literally a villain.”

“You said take it!”

“Yeah, well, now I’m filing a complaint.”

You both stood there, not moving, rain pounding down around you like static.

He shook out his arms and said, “Wanna go halfsies on a bag of chips?”

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t even have money, do you?”

Carl grinned. “Nope. Thought you might.”

You only scoffed at what he said.

You were still scowling at him when he suddenly turned and started walking down the street without a word. For a second, you just stood there, rain drizzling down your sleeves, unsure if you were supposed to follow. Carl glanced back, eyes softer now—almost like a dare, or an ... invitation.

“You coming?” he asked.

It’s cold, the air sharp and biting, but you find yourself trailing behind him anyway. He walks with purpose, like he’s got somewhere to be, but doesn’t say much. You’re a few steps behind, not quite catching up to him, your feet dragging through the wet streets. The rain has slowed, but the puddles have doubled in size.

He lead you down a familiar alley behind a run-down corner store. It’s the kind of alley you’d avoid, but Carl seems like he knew this place too well.

“Wait here,” he told you as he ducked behind a dumpster, and for a second, you’re genuinely confused.

Before you can finish the thought, Carl’s back out, holding a cardboard box, and he’s looking way too pleased with himself. “Check this out.”

You blinked. “What, like some secret stash?”

He shruged like it’s not a big deal. “Sorta.”

You stared at the box in his hands. When he pulled the top off, you saw what’s inside: a collection of random, probably stolen, items. You tried to hide your surprise as Carl pulls out a squashed action figure with a missing arm.

“This is what you do with your free time?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Carl shoot you a half-smile, almost shy for a second. “I like to think of it as… treasure hunting.”

He dug deeper into the box and pulled out a set of broken walkie-talkies and a slingshot with a couple of rocks stuffed inside. There was also a scribbled-up notebook with crayon drawings that look suspiciously like stick figures of his siblings. He held it out to you like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

“You think I’m gonna end up in jail, don’t you?”

The question was so casual, it thrww you off for a moment. You blinked, taken aback by how serious his tone suddenly is. “Uh… I don’t know. Why?”

He gave a little shrug, almost like he was trying to act nonchalant. “I guess I just end up with stuff like this, and... well, I don’t know. It’s dumb.”

You glanced at the random assortment of junk, and then at Carl. He seemed a little less... Carl. A little more like a regular kid just trying to keep everything together.

“It’s not dumb,” you said quietly, but Carl didn't look at you when you said it. He was already stuffing the notebook back into the box, closing it up with one quick motion.

“Whatever. Let’s go to our house. You owe me pizza,” he added, as if the moment never happened.

You hesitated, but only for a second. Showing up to your place soaked to the bone wasn’t exactly appealing—your dad would ask questions you didn’t feel like answering. And honestly? The idea of drying off somewhere that wasn’t freezing cold didn’t sound half bad.

So when Carl jerked his head toward the corner and started walking, you fell into step beside him.

The walk back to Carl’s place is quick, your shoes splashing in the wet streets, but you can’t seem to shake off the weird feeling. Something about that moment with the junk box and his sudden vulnerability had you thinking, but Carl doesn’t give you much time to ponder.

When you get to the Gallagher house, you were immediately hit with the familiar chaos. You stop just outside the door, looking at Carl. “So, uh, I’m just supposed to, what, walk in?”

He shot you a grin that said it all. “Yep. Welcome to the circus.”

You step inside, and it's like walking into an entirely different world. The living room was a mess of toys, broken furniture, and the faint smell of burnt food. Liam was in the corner, sobbing quietly while clutching a stuffed animal. Fiona’s running around with her hair a mess, trying to cook dinner while answering a call, and Lip was passed out on the couch, textbook splayed across his chest like he’s been sleeping in the middle of a lecture.

Debbie, however, is the one who greets you first. “Well, look who decided to show up,” she said with a raised eyebrow, her hands full of what looks like a failed attempt at a craft project. “You need a towel or something?”

You noded, but before she can go grab you one, Carl’s already tossing you a ratty towel from a pile in the corner. “You’ll live.”

You took the towel, awkwardly drying your hair as Carl made his way over to Liam, who was still crying. You overheared Carl telling him, “I swear, if I catch you crying again, I’m taking your toys and throwing them out the window.”

Liam looked at Carl, sniffling, then slowly nods, wiping his eyes.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Here you were, sitting in a house that could easily be the set of a sitcom, with Carl Gallagher—wild and unpredictable Carl—acting like a strange mix of caretaker and troublemaker.

“Thanks for the towel,” you said, feeling a bit weird about it. He didn't respond, and leaned against the wall, clearly not interested in a thank-you.

And then, in the middle of everything, you caught Carl looking at you for a moment. His eyes soften just a bit, but then he quickly looked away, like he didn’t want you to notice.

But you did.