The couch groaned under MJ's weight as sunlight shoved its way through the Gallagher living room curtains. His neck was stiff, his back sore, but it beat steel bunks and concrete walls. Liam babbled from his playpen, smacking two toys together like he was starting a band.
MJ sat up, rubbing his face. The house smelled like burnt toast and syrup. Fiona was already in the kitchen, frying eggs with one hand and scrolling through her phone with the other. Bills were scattered across the table like confetti nobody asked for.
"Morning," MJ muttered, standing and stretching.
"Barely," Fiona shot back without looking at him. "We're out of milk. Again. And Debbie's field trip is today, which means I need $20 for the bus fee. You got it?"
MJ grabbed his hoodie from the arm of the couch, fished into his pocket, and slid a crumpled twenty onto the counter. "Covered."
Fiona glanced at the bill, then at him. "How much of this am I supposed to take before I start asking where it's coming from?"
"Don't ask," MJ said evenly, snagging a piece of toast from the plate.
"Yeah, that's what Frank used to say, too."
The words hung heavy. MJ chewed, swallowed, then met her eyes. "The difference is, I pay my debts. Frank just makes more of 'em."
Before Fiona could fire back, Carl stomped in, backpack half-zipped. "MJ! You really gonna teach me how to jack a car or what? I told my friends I'd know how by Friday."
"Jesus Christ, Carl," Fiona groaned.
MJ smirked despite himself. "Maybe when you can see over the steering wheel."
Carl grinned, flipping him off on his way out the door.
"Parent of the year," Fiona muttered.
Lip was already outside, leaning against the porch railing, cigarette between his fingers. MJ joined him, the morning air crisp with the smell of fried food from two blocks over.
"You heard about last night?" Lip asked without looking at him.
"Heard what?"
"Word is the Chevy you boosted belonged to some guy who pays the Milkoviches. Tito's good at moving cars, but if you piss off the wrong chain—" Lip flicked his ash. "You'll have more than Fiona riding your ass."
MJ exhaled slowly. "Mickey was at the Alibi. If he had a real problem, he'd have done more than crack jokes."
Lip shook his head. "You've been gone a long time. Things run tighter now. Mickey's older, meaner. He doesn't always warn twice."
MJ let the words sink in, but didn't show it. "Then we'll deal with it if it comes. You've got bigger things to stress about. Like how to not flunk out of school."
Lip smirked sideways. "Touché."
By midday, MJ found himself back at Tito's garage, leaning against a stack of tires while Tito counted bills. The grease-stained mechanic looked nervous for once.
"You didn't tell me that Chevy was connected," Tito said, shoving the cash into a drawer.
"Didn't know," MJ answered.
"Well, they know now. Two of Mickey's cousins came sniffing this morning. Asking who moved it."
MJ's jaw flexed. "You give 'em my name?"
Tito glared. "Hell no. But word gets around. You need to lay low."
"Lying low never paid the rent," MJ muttered, grabbing his hoodie tighter around him.
Tito sighed. "Then at least don't bring that heat back here."
That evening, the Gallagher kitchen was loud with clattering pans and overlapping voices. Debbie was showing Fiona her permission slip, Ian sat at the table doing homework he'd probably never finish, and Carl was trying to tape a firecracker to his action figure.
MJ slipped through the door, a bag of groceries in one hand. He set it on the counter. "Milk, bread, ramen, and the good kind of cereal. You're welcome."
Fiona froze mid-sentence. "Where the hell did you get money for groceries and bills?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes, it matters!" she snapped. "I don't need another Frank. I don't need you dragging cops through this door when I've already got enough kids to keep out of juvie."
The room went quiet. Even Carl set down the firecracker.
MJ's voice was calm but sharp. "I'm not Frank. Don't ever confuse us."
Fiona's eyes burned into him, but before she could answer, a hard knock rattled the front door.
Everyone froze.
Ian glanced at Lip, who'd just come down the stairs. Debbie whispered, "Cops?"
Fiona pressed her lips thin, wiping her hands on a towel. "Carl, upstairs. Debbie, take Liam. Now."
MJ stepped toward the door before she could. "I got it."
He opened it to find two thick-necked guys leaning on the porch—Mickey's cousins, just like Lip had warned. Their eyes were hard, hands stuffed in jackets heavy enough to hide something.
"You MJ?" one asked.
MJ didn't flinch. "Who's asking?"
"You boosted the wrong ride, man. That Chevy wasn't for stealing."
"Funny," MJ said. "Didn't have your name on it."
The taller cousin leaned in, voice low and mean. "Mickey's giving you one chance. Pay up what it's worth, or next time, it ain't just a car that goes missing."
Behind MJ, Fiona hovered in the doorway, fists clenched. Lip was a shadow on the stairs, eyes narrowed.
MJ held their stare, the tension thick as smoke. Then he nodded once. "Fine. Tell Mickey I'll handle it."
The cousins smirked like they'd already won, then turned and walked off into the South Side night.
MJ closed the door, jaw tight.
Fiona rounded on him immediately. "This. This is exactly what I'm talking about!"
But MJ wasn't listening. His mind was already running numbers, angles, debts, and favors. Mickey Milkovich wanted payment, and the South Side never gave second warnings.
And for the first time since he'd walked free, MJ felt the walls of the neighborhood closing in again.