The streets were alive in that tired South Side way—dogs barking behind fences, a couple kids tossing rocks at a broken stop sign, and the faint hum of a train rolling somewhere in the distance. Francis flicked the ash off his cigarette, boots steady on the pavement as he made his way toward the Alibi.
That's when he saw her.
Mrs. Reynolds.
She stood by a corner shop, sunglasses on even though the sun was already sliding down behind the buildings. She had a grocery bag hooked on her arm, hair tied up in that careless-but-done way women did when they were tired but still cared how the world looked at them.
Francis slowed, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He let the cigarette hang between his fingers as he crossed the street.
"Evening," he said, smooth, casual.
She turned, blinking at first, then smiling when she recognized him. "Francis. I didn't expect to see you around here."
"I get around," he said. "South Side's got a way of pulling me into walks when my head's heavy."
Her laugh was small, like she didn't want to give him too much. "Your head always heavy?"
"Comes with the last name," Francis replied. He glanced at her bag. "Need a hand with that?"
"It's not much." She hesitated, then handed it to him anyway. Their fingers brushed, brief but deliberate. Francis caught the flicker in her eyes.
They started walking together, her pace easy, his steady.
"You don't look like you belong here," Francis said, tone light but edged with truth. "Too clean for these streets."
Her smile curved, faint. "I could say the same about you. You've got that… put-together thing. Doesn't fit the neighborhood."
"Maybe that's why I stick out," he said. Then, after a pause: "Maybe that's why we noticed each other."
She laughed again, this one softer. "You've got your father's mouth, don't you?"
"Not if I can help it," Francis muttered, but his smirk stayed.
They turned down another block, the grocery bag swinging lightly between his fingers. He timed it, then dropped the first question.
"So… how's Reynolds these days? Still working late?"
Her eyes flicked away. "Always. Work's his first wife, the kids and I come second. You know how it is."
Francis hummed, nodding like he understood. "Doesn't sound like he leaves much room for enemies if he's buried in work all the time."
"Oh, he leaves room," she said with a sharpness she didn't mean to let out. Then she sighed, softening. "He's good at his job, but he doesn't… make friends. Half the people he works with smile to his face and curse him behind his back."
"Anyone in particular?" Francis asked, his tone curious but casual, like he was just keeping the conversation going.
She thought for a moment, frowning slightly. "There's a guy in his office—Donovan, I think? He hates my husband. Always complains that Reynolds undercuts him. Then there's some cop who came by once, said my husband made him look bad in court. I can't remember his name, but he was furious."
Francis stored the names away quietly, nodding along. "Sounds like Reynolds is good at making sure everyone owes him. But I bet that makes it harder for you sometimes."
Her eyes softened at that, like no one had ever bothered to notice. "You don't know the half of it. He gets so wrapped up in his deals and his cases, sometimes I wonder if he even remembers we're here. The kids notice. I try to hide it, but they know."
Francis slowed slightly, watching her face. "You deserve better than someone who forgets what's in front of him."
Her breath caught. She looked away, tugging at the tie of her robe like she needed to ground herself. "You're very forward, Francis."
He smirked. "Forward's just honesty without the mask."
She shook her head, but she was smiling again, even blushing faintly. "You're dangerous."
"Only if you want me to be."
They walked in silence for a while, the streets thinning as they reached cleaner sidewalks closer to her side of town. The grocery bag was light, but Francis kept hold of it, making it look heavier than it was just to keep it in his hand.
When they reached her block, she slowed. The porch lights glowed, her kids' toys scattered in the yard. She turned to him, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Thanks for walking me," she said.
Francis set the bag gently at her feet. "Least I could do. You made the walk less boring."
She laughed, quiet. "You're trouble, Francis Gallagher."
He stepped a little closer, his voice dropping low. "Maybe. But trouble can be the best part of someone's day."
For a second, she didn't move. Her eyes met his, steady but questioning, like she was teetering on a line she'd been afraid to cross. Then she looked away, pulling her robe tighter. "You should go. Before someone sees."
Francis nodded, stepping back. But the smirk lingered. "Another time then."
She shook her head, half-smiling, half-nervous. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I don't make promises," Francis said, turning. "Just plans."
He walked off, cigarette back between his lips, the flame catching in the dark as he lit it, he paused and turned back.
"On second thought, why don't I walk you home?"