Archive of Our Own

There were many things Mickey Milkovich had never expected to have in this life.

A legal marriage certificate with his name on it for one. That had felt like some kind of clerical error the first time he saw it, as if a courthouse clerk would eventually call and tell them they had mixed up paperwork and the Milkovich kid from the South Side didn’t actually qualify for government sanctioned happiness.

Then there was the apartment. Not the fanciest one, but it had heat that worked and a couch that didn’t smell like ten different strangers had died on it and it also came with a pool. Ian kept trying to buy plants even though half of them ended up dying on the windowsill, and Mickey kept complaining about the dirt but never actually threw them away.

There was also the fact that they sometimes argued about groceries like an old married couple, which still felt insane when Mickey stopped and thought about it. One day you were running guns for cash and sleeping in abandoned houses, and the next you were standing in a checkout line holding a carton of eggs while your husband insisted organic meant something.

Even the neighbors counted as one of those weird things life had thrown at him. The old woman down the hall brought them cookies at Christmas and called them boys even though Mickey had a criminal record longer than her grocery receipts.

Still, none of that even came close to what Carl Gallagher had just called them about, because if someone had asked Mickey to make a list titled Things I Will Never See In My Life, then Carl calling to say Ian had a baby waiting at the Alibi would have gone straight to the top.

The car ride there had turned the inside of Mickey’s brain into a mess of half formed questions.

Traffic crawled along like usual and the heater rattled, yet Mickey kept glancing over at Ian’s hands on his lap. The fingers looked damp and Ian kept wiping them on his jeans without noticing.

Finally Mickey said, “So who the fuck did you fuck?”

The question came out casual enough, although he watched Ian from the corner of his eye.

Ian stared at the windshield, “I didn’t.”

“Carl says there’s a baby.”

“That part is apparently true.”

Silence filled the car for a minute, while Mickey tried to put the pieces together and failed.

“You don’t fuck girls,” he said.

“I know.”

“So either biology changed while I wasn’t looking, or there’s some weird Jesus situation going on here.”

Ian almost smiled at that, though it disappeared fast.

“During one of my episodes,” he said after a moment.

Oh, okay. That.

Mickey kept driving.

Ian rubbed the heel of his hand over his forehead. “Someone told me about this clinic on the South Side. They were paying two hundred bucks for donations.”

“Donations,” Mickey repeated.

“Yeah.”

“And you thought this was a good idea?”

“I thought I could grab the money and run to Canada for a while,” Ian said. “Before everybody started yelling about meds again.”

Mickey blinked once.

“Well that’s a plan,” he said.

Ian gave a helpless shrug.

“So the kid isn’t yours like that,” Mickey continued. “There’s contracts for this shit. Confidentiality. Paperwork. People love paperwork.”

Ian nodded but didn’t look convinced.

“I don’t remember much about the place,” he admitted. “It was sketchy.”

“Everything on this side of the city is sketchy.”

Neither of them spoke again for a few blocks. Ian kept rubbing his palms together while Mickey kept the car pointed toward the Alibi because there was nowhere else to go.

When they pulled into the parking lot, Ian stayed in his seat, so Mickey cut the engine and watched him.

Those big green eyes looked like they were trying to process ten different futures at once.

Mickey reached across the console, grabbed his hand and squeezed once.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s see what kind of disaster Gallagher genetics cooked up this time.”

Inside the bar things looked normal enough.

Carl stood near the counter in his police uniform, which still felt ridiculous every time Mickey saw it. There was this new girl wiping glasses behind the bar while Kermit sat on a stool nursing a beer like always.

There was also a woman Mickey didn’t recognize.

She stood near a table with a clipboard tucked against her chest. Long black hair fell straight down her back and her nails were painted beige like she had time to care about that kind of thing.

Carl looked up first.

“There they are,” he said. “This makes me the only Gallagher without a kid.”

“There’s Liam,” someone at the bar pointed out.

Carl shrugged. “He’s a kid himself.”

“He’s smarter than you.”

Carl shrugged again like that proved nothing.

Ian stood beside Mickey and didn’t say much. His hands had started shaking again, which Mickey noticed because they brushed against his sleeve.

The woman stepped forward.

“I’m Mei Chen,” she said. “I work with child services.”

“Great,” Mickey answered.

Her expression stayed polite.

“I understand this situation is unexpected,” she continued. “The clinic involved has recently been shut down due to multiple legal violations. We are currently reviewing several cases connected to it.”

Ian swallowed. “The baby.”

Mei nodded.

“The woman who carried the pregnancy died a few days ago.”

The bar quieted a little.

“She had entered into a surrogate agreement with a couple,” Mei explained. “However they withdrew from the arrangement when she was eight months pregnant.”

“That’s cold,” Kermit said.

Mei continued as if she had heard worse.

“She left no legal guardianship for the child, and the clinic responsible is now under investigation. Normally the infant would enter the adoption system immediately, but since the donor records were incomplete we attempted to contact the biological father.”

She looked directly at Ian.

“Which brings us here.”

Ian nodded slowly while trying to keep up.

“Do you want to see her?” Mei asked.

“Yeah,” Mickey said, making Ian glance at him but he just ignored it. “Show us the little brat.”

Mei stepped aside, already pulling her phone from her pocket while she moved toward the far end of the bar, and she spoke in a low voice that Mickey couldn’t quite catch over the hum of the room. Eventually the door near the back of the Alibi creaked open, the one that usually led to the cramped hallway behind the bar and the tiny office nobody cleaned, and another woman stepped through it carefully, both hands wrapped around a small bundle held close against her chest.

Mickey had expected something else entirely.

He had expected noise, for one thing, because babies were supposed to scream or wail or at least complain about being dragged into a place like this. He had expected something squished looking and angry, the way newborns always seemed in the rare moments he had seen them, all red faces and flailing limbs and miserable little noises.

Instead the baby blinked up at the room in confusion, enormous green eyes wide as she took the crooked rows of bottles behind the bar, as if she were trying to understand why anyone would choose to exist in a place that smelled like that.

A thin fuzz of red hair stuck out in stubborn little wisps across her head, too bright against her pale skin, which looked almost luminous under the yellow glow of the bar lights, and she wore a soft onesie printed with cartoon ducks marching across the fabric in cheerful little rows.

Mickey hated the ducks immediately.

“Well,” Kermit said, with a shitty smile. “That’s definitely Gallagher coloring.”

Ian stepped forward, his shoulders a little stiff, like the act of moving closer had taken more effort than it should have, and asked, “What are our options?”

She started explaining the legal process with the kind of voice someone uses when they have delivered the same information many times before, but Mickey barely followed any of it because the baby had turned her head toward him.

One small hand lifted, wavering for a second like she was still figuring out how arms worked, and then her fingers closed around his.

The one with the U tattoo.

Her grip was surprisingly strong for something so tiny, and she wrapped her hand around his finger like she had discovered the most interesting object in the entire room.

Those huge green eyes fixed on him with complete focus, and then she began slowly pulling his finger toward her mouth.

“Hey,” Mickey said. “Not happening, kid.”

He eased his finger back before she could succeed, careful even though he had no idea how fragile babies actually were.

“Three cigarettes in the last ten minutes,” he added, glancing down at her. “You’re not starting that habit before eighteen.”

The baby blinked at him as if considering the rule.

Beside him, Ian kept talking to Mei, “So we would need to adopt her?”

“Technically no,” the woman said. “Because you’re the biological father and she hasn’t yet been registered under a legal name.”

Kermit took a sip of beer somewhere behind them, the sound of the glass touching the counter oddly loud in the middle of the conversation.

“If you wish to keep the child, the paperwork will be simple.”

The baby tried again for Mickey’s finger.

This time he let her hold it, even though he kept a careful eye on the distance between her mouth and his skin.

“So she’s yours,” Mei added, glancing toward Ian. “And she doesn’t currently have a registered name.”

Silence settled across the bar for a long moment. Mickey looked down at the tiny hand wrapped around his finger, then lifted his gaze toward Ian, who looked like someone dropped in the middle of a hurricane without warning.

Mickey turned back toward Mei and simply said, “We’re keeping her.”

Ian turned toward him so fast his chair scraped against the floor, and those same big green eyes the baby had stared straight at Mickey.

“How does this work,” he asked Mei. “He signs something and we leave?”

She nodded and continued explaining the legal details Mickey had already decided he didn’t care about, while Ian stood beside him listening carefully, his hands still shaking.

“So we would both be listed on the certificate?” Ian asked, wanting to confirm every piece of the explanation.

“If you want, yes.” Mei answered. “Illinois law allows same sex couples to share parental rights in cases like this.”

“Good,” Mickey said, and his attention returned to the baby again. “Because I’m not explaining to my kid later why paperwork says I’m not her dad.”

Ian let out a breath that sounded halfway between panic and disbelief.

“You’re serious.”

Mickey looked at him like the question itself was ridiculous, “You want to send her to some random foster system?”

“No.”

“Then we’re done talking about it.”

The baby tugged on his finger again, apparently satisfied with her new discovery.

“Also she’s already got good taste,” Mickey added, glancing down at her. “Picked me first.”

Carl laughed behind the bar.

Ian dragged a hand down his face and shook his head.

“Jesus Christ,” he said quietly.

Mei began laying out documents across the table in neat rows, “Since the child is unregistered, you will both sign as legal parents and choose a name.”

“Easy,” Mickey said.

Ian looked at him again.

“You’ve been thinking about names?”

“Everybody thinks about names.”

“Since when?”

“Since I realized Gallagher genetics might eventually come for me.”

Ian stared at him for a second, then laughed, and the sound seemed to loosen something inside his chest because his shoulders finally dropped a little.

The baby shifted inside the blanket and made a small noise.

Mickey watched her carefully.

“Don’t start crying,” he warned. “I have no idea what to do with that.”

“She’s hungry,” the other woman said.

Ian reached forward and carefully took the baby into his arms. She looked even smaller against him, her head resting near his shoulder while the blanket swallowed most of her body.

Mickey leaned closer and studied her face.

“Definitely yours,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“You got the eyes.”

Ian looked down at her and said, “She has your attitude already.”

Mickey snorted at that.

Mei slid the first document toward them.

“If you will both sign here.”

Mickey grabbed the pen before she had even finished the sentence, because the baby had opened her eyes again and was staring straight at him while Ian held her close.

And somewhere between Carl complaining about Gallagher fertility, the ugly duck pajamas, and that tiny hand grabbing his finger like she had chosen him without hesitation, something inside Mickey Milkovich had changed completely.

Life had surprised him more than once already.

Marriage had surprised him.

A home had surprised him.

A husband who refused to leave him, even when Mickey gave him every possible reason to walk away, had surprised him more than anything.

But none of those moments felt as simple as this one.

He signed his name across the paper while Ian watched from beside him, then he looked back at the baby and said, “Welcome to the family, punk.”

The baby turned out to be suspiciously calm, and that fact alone had Mickey on edge because babies screamed. Everyone knew that. Babies screamed on buses and in grocery stores, they screamed in waiting rooms and airplanes, they screamed at three in the morning and sometimes they screamed for reasons nobody could identify. Entire books existed about how to make babies stop screaming, which meant the screaming had to be a major part of the experience.

But this one mostly blinked and watched things.

She made small complaining noises when the diaper got too full and when hunger started bothering her, but outside of that she simply didn't make noises at all.

Earlier she had wrapped her small hand around Mickey’s finger and started dragging it toward her mouth again, and it would have been impressive if it hadn't also been slightly terrifying. Ian said she was probably starving.

Which brought them to the current situation.

Ian sat on the couch in their apartment with a bottle in one hand and a baby in the other, but Mickey wasn't there because Mickey had gone to Walmart.

The idea formed while Ian was still pacing the apartment with the baby in his arms and talking to Debbie on speakerphone. Debbie sounded confident in the way only someone who had already survived raising a small human could sound, and she kept listing things they needed.

Diapers.

Formula.

Wipes.

Diaper cream.

Some kind of thermometer.

Possibly a baby bathtub.

Ian was writing the list down on the back of a junk mail envelope while nodding seriously like this was a military strategy, and when Mickey grabbed his keys, the redhead looked at him as asked, “Where are you going?”

“To buy stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Baby stuff.”

Then he left before Ian could start another round of questions.

The baby aisle at Walmart ran almost half the length of the store, which felt excessive even by Walmart standards, and Mickey stood there for a moment staring at it like someone had dropped him into a foreign country without instructions, because every shelf was packed with rows of diapers and rows of bottles and rows of formula and rows of toys, along with stacks of blankets smaller than dish towels and socks tiny enough to fit on a hamster, and while none of it made much sense to him he grabbed a cart anyway, then grabbed a second one halfway down the aisle when the first one filled up faster than expected.

Diapers alone took up half the space because the packages were enormous, almost the size of luggage, and the babies printed on the front smiled confidently like their lives were perfectly peaceful, which Mickey knew was a lie considering the number of screaming infants he had encountered in grocery stores and buses over the years, but he grabbed three different brands anyway since every box insisted it was the best option, then he added wipes because the packages promised softness and sensitivity, so six packs went straight into the cart before he moved on.

Bottles came next, and that section alone could have driven a normal person insane because there were narrow bottles and wide bottles and bottles with curved shapes that claimed to reduce air intake, some with colorful lids and others with printed measurement lines along the side, so he grabbed several because the baby would obviously need bottles and because it felt safer to have too many rather than not enough, and after that came the formula section, which looked less like food and more like a chemistry experiment because every container promised something different, one talking about brain development while another focused on gentle digestion and another one on immune support, and Mickey stared at the labels long enough to reach a simple conclusion that the baby probably needed both a brain and digestion and an immune system, so all three brands ended up in the cart.

A store employee had been watching this entire operation while stocking a shelf nearby, and eventually he stepped closer and asked if it was Mickey’s first kid, which earned him the answer “something like that,” and the employee nodded and pointed down the aisle where Mickey found three different kinds of thermometers hanging there, one shaped like a small gun, one looking normal, and one meant for ears, and since the baby had already managed to surprise him several times in the past few hours he bought two different thermometers just in case.

Somewhere between the blankets and the stuffed animals Mickey pulled out his phone because it had buzzed in his pocket, and the messages waiting there were all from Ian, each one shorter and more frantic than the last, starting with deb says babies eat every 2 to 3 hours and followed by deb says we need diaper cream and then deb says babies can get rashes, which made Mickey type back a already got stuff while standing in front of a rack full of stuffed animals, and then, because the giraffe in front of him had enormous cartoon eyes and a ridiculous smile, he added do we need giraffes?

Ian answered almost immediately with what does that even mean, which made Mickey stare at the giraffe for a moment longer before placing it into the cart anyway, because the baby might like giraffes, and since the turtle next to it looked more responsible he added that one too before continuing down the aisle.

By the time he reached the register both carts were overflowing, and the cashier took one look at the mountain of baby supplies before glancing back at Mickey with raised eyebrows while asking if it was a big day, which earned her a simple “apparently,” and she kept scanning items while commenting that it was a lot of diapers and asking if the baby was a newborn, and when Mickey answered “two months” she smiled and offered congratulations while the receipt printed long enough to qualify as reading material.

Loading everything into the trunk took longer than expected, and carrying the bags upstairs required two separate trips because there was no chance Mickey would leave baby supplies sitting in the hallway where someone might steal them, and by the time he pushed the apartment door open Ian was still sitting on the couch exactly where Mickey had left him, holding the baby while she sucked on an empty bottle.

Ian looked up immediately and said “oh thank god,” which made Mickey stop in the doorway and ask what happened, and when Ian answered that nothing had happened Mickey asked why the hell he sounded so relieved, which earned the explanation that he had been holding a two month old human being for two straight hours and had spent most of that time worrying he would somehow break her.

Mickey dropped the bags on the table and looked over.

“You didn’t break her.”

“She’s two months old.”

“Still alive.”

“That's not the standard we are aiming for.”

The baby continued drinking air calmly without paying attention to the conversation, which felt strange considering how quiet she had been since they left the Alibi earlier, and Mickey stepped closer while asking how much she had eaten.

“I don’t know,” Ian admitted. “I followed the instructions on the formula container and Debbie said four ounces is normal but Franny sometimes drank six so I made five because it's not four or six.”

Mickey stared at him for a moment, “Great math.”

The baby paused long enough to blink toward Mickey, which he immediately pointed out, “You see that? She likes me.”

Ian glanced at the pile of bags covering the table and asked what Mickey had bought, which earned the answer “stuff” again, and when Ian pointed out that wasn't helpful Mickey started unloading the bags anyway, stacking diapers and wipes and formula cans while Ian watched the growing collection with disbelief.

“You bought a bathtub?”

“She needs baths.”

“We have a sink.”

“The sink is not baby sized.”

“She weighs eight pounds.”

“Still.”

Ian picked up the stuffed giraffe next and just deadass stared at him.

“What? She needs toys.”

“She cannot hold her head up.”

“Preparation.”

The baby paused sucking and Ian shifted it carefully while repeating something Debbie had said about burping, which led to Mickey explaining that he just needed to tap her back, and after a moment of hesitant patting the baby let out a small burp that made Ian blink like he had just discovered a new skill.

“She did it.”

“She did.”

“I feel like we unlocked something.”

“Next step is keeping her alive.”

“That bar again.”

A few seconds later the baby made a quiet whining sound, which made Mickey immediately point out that she probably needed a diaper change because she had made the same face earlier, and once Ian noticed the expression too he stood up and announced they were changing her.

The process took longer than expected, and Mickey asked Ian if he never changed his siblings diapers before. Ian just shrugged and said, "It's different." Mickey wanted to say that no, it wasn't, but he decided it was not the best hour to annoy his husband, so eventually wipes appeared and the new diaper replaced the old one, and when Ian finally picked her up again she blinked toward Mickey once more.

“See,” he said again. “She likes me.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because she does.”

Ian looked at him for a second, then a small smile pulled at his mouth while he adjusted the baby in his arms and said, “Yeah, she does.”

Mickey hadn't announced the decision, but Ian noticed after the third drawer.

“What are you doing?”

He didn't answer immediately because he had just pulled a handgun from the back of the kitchen cabinet where the flour used to sit, and he checked the chamber out of habit before setting it carefully on the counter, then he opened the cabinet above the fridge and pulled out another one.

“That’s two,” Ian said from the couch.

“Relax.”

“You had one in the flour cabinet?”

“Yeah, for protection.”

Ian shifted the baby on his shoulder while watching him continue.

“She can’t even roll over.”

Mickey opened the drawer beside the sink and pulled out a knife that definitely didn't belong in a kitchen drawer, which earned another count from Ian.

“That’s three.”

“Knife doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely counts.”

The knife joined the growing pile while Mickey crouched and reached behind the radiator, where another gun appeared like a magician’s trick.

“You’re kidding,” Ian said.

“Four.”

Ian glanced down at the baby, then back at Mickey, clearly doing the math on how any of this would possibly matter for a child who could barely lift her head.

“It will take her months to walk and be able to grab those things.”

Mickey shrugged while opening the drawer beside the couch, “Doesn’t matter.”

“That’s not how babies work.”

“No guns around the house.”

The statement came out like it had been an obvious rule all along, which made the whole thing ridiculous considering Mickey Milkovich had grown up in a house where guns were household decorations and knives existed in every room whether they belonged there or not, and once when he was nine he had found a grenade sitting inside a garage toolbox while Terry yelled at someone through the wall, but back then nobody cared where the weapons were as long as they were within reach.

Now he was stuffing them into a duffel bag.

Ian watched him for a moment.

“You had a gun in the couch?”

“That one’s been there since January.”

“I have sat on that couch.”

“Exactly.”

Another drawer opened and another knife appeared, then another gun, and Ian rubbed a hand over his face while adjusting the baby again, “You’re like a raccoon pulling things out of hiding spots.”

“Preparation.”

“For what?”

“For not having my kid accidentally shoot herself.”

“She’s two months old.”

“She won't be two months forever, Gallagher.”

The baby made a small complaining sound and Ian immediately started swaying while patting her back without thinking about it, and then he looked up again to see Mickey continuing the search by walking into the bedroom and opening the closet, where another gun appeared from behind a shoebox.

Ian blinked.

“How many do you have?”

“Enough.”

The bag on the floor was getting heavy, and Ian shifted the baby into his other arm while studying Mickey for a moment.

He looked exhausted.

Not the kind that came from work or arguments or running around the South Side all day, but the kind that came from spending hours keeping a tiny human alive, and his hair stuck up in several directions like he had run his hands through it too many times while his shirt carried a faint milk stain near the collar from earlier when the baby spit up during feeding, yet somehow the whole thing looked good on him.

They had started taking turns with work.

One day Mickey went out while Ian stayed home with the baby, then the next day Ian worked and Mickey stayed behind, and the strange part was that the days Ian stayed home left him looking three times more worn out than the days he actually went to work.

It was a different kind of exhaustion, and Mickey kinda wanted to suck him dry. Just that simple physical urge that had lived under his skin since the moment he realized Ian Gallagher wasn't going anywhere anymore.

Except now they had a baby sleeping every night in a crib two steps away from their bed, and Mickey understood perfectly well that blowjob noises weren't the best lullaby.

So instead of acting on the thought he walked past Ian and grabbed the gun taped behind the dresser.

“That’s the last one.”

Ian raised an eyebrow.

“You say that every five minutes.”

“This one is actually the last.”

“Sure.”

The bag sat near the door now, full of metal and terrible life decisions, and Mickey stepped closer to the couch where Ian looked up at him with tired eyes while holding the baby carefully in his arms, which made Mickey lean down for a quick kiss.

Then he pulled away and headed for the hallway closet, where another knife appeared from behind the towels.

Ian laughed.

“You had one in the bathroom?”

“Emergency.”

“What emergency requires a bathroom knife?”

“You never know.”

That one joined the rest of the collection while Mickey zipped the duffel bag closed.

“So you’re really going to drop all these guns somewhere else?”

Mickey rolled his eyes while lifting the bag easily even though it weighed more than a bowling ball.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “We’ll still carry one while working, but everything else is going to the Alibi pantry.”

“Carl is going to love that.”

“He already has three shotguns back there.”

Ian looked at him for a long second after that, long enough that Mickey noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing.”

Ian sighed and murmured, “You weren’t like this with Yevgeny.”

There it was.

Mickey had known that conversation would eventually happen, so he dropped the bag near the door and shrugged before saying, “Different circumstances.”

Ian moved carefully while placing the baby in the crib beside the couch, and once she settled he turned back.

“She’s asleep.”

“Good.”

Then he sat on the edge of the couch and spread his knees while gesturing Mickey closer.

“Come here.”

He stepped forward out of habit more than curiosity, and Ian pulled him in until he stood between his legs, which made Mickey expect another argument. Instead Ian leaned forward and pressed a kiss against his hipbone through the fabric of his shirt, which Mickey barely felt through the layers of clothing but understood anyway.

Then Ian rested his forehead against his stomach without looking up.

“Thanks, Mick.”

Mickey wanted to roll his eyes and tell him that there was nothing to thank anyone for because this was simply how things worked now that there was a baby and a house and responsibilities nobody had ever bothered teaching him about growing up.

But Ian stayed there with his head against him, so all Mickey did was place a hand on top of that red hair and let it stay there for a moment.

Another morning arrived with the strange kind of routine that had formed around the baby, which meant the apartment looked like the aftermath of a small domestic storm because bottles sat in the sink waiting to be washed while folded blankets occupied the couch and a bag of diapers leaned against the wall near the door, but none of that seemed unusual anymore since the past weeks had turned both Mickey and Ian into people who moved through the day according to feeding schedules and nap windows and pediatric instructions scribbled in a small notebook Mickey now carried everywhere.

And, the craziest thing, was that there was a car waiting for Ian and the baby waiting outside.

Not a rusted South Side junker that coughed smoke and rattled like it might lose a tire in traffic, but a clean white BYD Seagull parked neatly by the curb as if it belonged in a dealership commercial rather than in front of their building, and Mickey stood beside the driver door holding it open like some kind of chauffeur while Ian stepped into the hallway with the baby tucked against his shoulder.

Blinking happened first.

Then more blinking.

“What the fuck is this, Mickey?”

“A car.”

Ian stared at him like someone trying to determine whether exhaustion had finally caused a full mental breakdown.

“A car,” he repeated.

“Yeah,” Mickey said while leaning against the door. “It drives and everything.”

Confusion still hung on Ian’s face while he walked down the steps carefully with the baby.

“We didn't have a car yesterday.”

“Yesterday we didn’t have a car.”

“And today we do.”

“Congratulations on understanding time.”

The baby slept peacefully in Ian’s arms while Mickey opened the back door and pointed toward the car seat that had already been installed.

Ian paused.

“You stole a car seat.”

Mickey looked offended.

“Technically I relocated a car seat.”

Ian lowered the baby into the padded seat and began fastening the straps, then he stepped back and looked at the vehicle again. “No, really, what the fuck is this, Mickey?”

“Already answered that.”

“Try again.”

Mickey walked around the hood and dropped into the driver seat before leaning over the center console.

“Look,” he said, “Iggy knows a guy who sells cars cheap.”

Ian closed the passenger door and climbed inside before adding, “Stolen cars.”

“Yeah man, probably,” Mickey answered easily, starting the engine with a small amount of pride because the thing purred instead of coughing. “But it’s legal stuff, okay, because Iggy’s not out there boosting cars from random parking lots anymore. He’s got this deal with people who want the insurance money, so the car disappears and they report it stolen and collect their check while Iggy gets the vehicle and flips it, and apparently he’s got some partnership with a couple dirty State Department of Transportation employees who handle the plates and documents so everything looks legitimate on paper, which means as far as the system is concerned we now legally own this motherfucker.”

Ian leaned back in the seat while trying to process the explanation.

“You bought a stolen electric family car.”

“Technically I bought an insurance fraud collaboration.”

Sleep deprivation showed clearly in the way Ian rubbed his face before letting out a small giggle that surprised both of them.

“I never thought I’d see you driving something like this.”

“Yeah well,” Mickey said while pulling away from the curb, “it’s kind of a pussy car, but I googled that shit and it’s apparently good for families.”

That was what they were now, right?

A family.

Ian placed his hand on his thigh and squeezed once, and although he didn't remove it afterward the pressure stayed light while the car rolled through traffic.

Doctor appointments had become part of life too.

This one happened at a private pediatric clinic because Mickey had decided the baby deserved a doctor who didn't look half asleep and overworked while juggling thirty screaming kids at once, and the waiting room looked cleaner than any medical place Mickey had ever visited in his life.

The pediatrician turned out to be younger than expected, probably late twenties, with a calm way of moving through the appointment that made the entire process feel less chaotic than the first time they had walked into a hospital with the baby.

She checked everything carefully, and the baby accepted most of the examination without complaint, although the moment the vaccines appeared she started crying with real anger.

Mickey held her tiny arm while the doctor administered the shots.

“All vaccines available,” he said firmly when the doctor asked if they wanted the full schedule.

Ian nodded beside him, “Everything.”

Terry Milkovich had once ranted for two straight hours about how vaccines were some government conspiracy designed to control the population, which meant Mickey had made the opposite decision years ago without even thinking about it.

The doctor wrote something down in the chart.

“She's a little underweight for her age,” she explained, “but not dangerously so, and considering her early circumstances, that's not surprising. Increasing feeding frequency slightly should help, and I would like to see her again in two weeks to track progress.”

Mickey already had the notebook out.

Ian watched while he scribbled notes.

Feed every 2 hours.

Monitor weight.

Schedule follow up.

“You carry that thing everywhere now,” Ian said quietly.

“Information is important.”

“You’re terrifyingly responsible.”

“Shut up.”

The doctor continued explaining a few additional details about feeding and sleep and development, and Mickey wrote everything down while asking questions that sounded far more organized than he felt inside.

Later, Ian buckled the baby into the seat while Mickey stood near the door reviewing the notes he had written, and once everything looked secure he stepped toward the driver side.

Then, a hand grabbed his shirt, and the next moment his back pressed against the car door.

Ian kissed him.

Not a quick peck or the careful kind they used when the baby might wake up.

A real kiss.

One that made Mickey forget about the notebook and the car and the entire appointment.

Ian pulled back only enough to look at him.

“You look so hot being a responsible father.”

Mickey blinked.

“That sentence is illegal.”

Ian kissed him again.

“I’m serious.”

“You’re sleep deprived.”

“I am,” Ian agreed while pressing another kiss against his mouth. “But that doesn’t make it less true.”

Mickey felt heat climb into his face and decided to blame the weather.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Look at you,” Ian continued, brushing his thumb along his jaw. “You bought a family car, you took notes during the doctor appointment, and you made sure our kid got every vaccine available even though your dad would probably crawl out of hell to complain about it.”

“Fuck Terry.”

“Exactly.”

Ian kissed him again.

The baby slept quietly in the back seat.

“Also,” Ian added while resting his forehead against his temple, “you keep carrying that little notebook like a dad from a parenting commercial.”

“That notebook contains important medical data.”

“That notebook contains you writing feed baby more like five times.”

“Documentation.”

Ian laughed into the kiss.

“You’re adorable.”

“Stop saying things like that in public.”

“But you are.”

Mickey grabbed the back of Ian’s shirt and pulled him closer.

“Get in the fucking car before someone sees us and thinks we’re a normal couple.”

Ian grinned and said, “We are a normal couple, Mr. Gallagher.”

“Don’t say that out loud.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

Ian kissed him one more time before finally stepping away.

The drive home happened with Ian’s hand resting on Mickey’s leg again while the baby slept through the entire ride.

Mickey drove carefully, because responsible fathers apparently did that.

Franny had been eyeing the baby all evening, not in a dangerous way because Mickey had spent enough time around kids to recognize the difference between curiosity and the kind of jealousy that ended with someone getting bitten, and although Franny clearly didn't appreciate the sudden appearance of a tiny red haired rival, she was also a sweet kid, which meant the situation never crossed into anything mean, so she sat on the floor in front of the television pretending to watch cartoons while her attention kept drifting back toward the bassinet beside the couch where the baby slept, leaning forward every few minutes as if checking whether the tiny intruder was still there before leaning back again and repeating the whole inspection.

From the bedroom doorway Mickey noticed every bit of it while finishing with the hairbrush, because tonight happened to be their second wedding anniversary and Debbie had decided they were absolutely not allowed to ignore that fact, which meant she had announced earlier that they needed to go out for a few hours while she stayed behind with Franny.

“You should go out,” she had said like a self appointed marriage counselor. “I’ll stay here. Franny will help.”

And that was how Debbie and Franny ended up occupying the apartment while Mickey finished getting ready in the bedroom, Franny cross legged on the floor near the television and Debbie sitting at the kitchen table talking with Ian about family stuff that only siblings could stretch into an entire conversation.

“You still talk to Lip about that bike?” Debbie asked.

“He sold it,” Ian answered.

“Of course he did.”

The conversation drifted easily from Lip to Liam to Kev and V and several other names Mickey had heard for years, and while he leaned against the doorway watching them talk he felt a bit annoyed because he couldn't stop thinking about Mandy.

The thought appeared out of nowhere because she would have gone completely insane if she had walked into the apartment tonight and seen Mickey Milkovich married to Ian Gallagher with a baby sleeping in the bassinet beside the couch, and she would have started yelling immediately about how she fucking knew this would happen while grabbing the kid without asking and probably refusing to give her back for at least half an hour, then later pretending she wasn't crying when nobody looked directly at her.

The absence of that left an empty space that Mickey was still not used to.

Maybe later he would track her down, pay someone to find her and make sure she knew.

Stepping into the living room brought him straight back to the present because Debbie and Ian were still talking while Franny kept one eye on the cartoon and the other on the bassinet, and Mickey walked directly to the table before fixing Debbie with a look that meant business.

“She had a bottle twenty four minutes ago,” he said while pointing toward the bassinet. “Alexa will tell you when she needs another one, bottle’s in the fridge, and all the instructions are written down.”

The notebook appeared in his hand.

“Follow them.”

Debbie blinked at the sight of it, and Mickey knew perfectly well that he probably looked insane carrying it around like some suburban parent who organized birthday parties six months ahead.

Still, the notebook landed in front of her.

Debbie opened it, then she looked back at him.

“You wrote reminders.”

“Yes.”

Her eyebrows lifted while she processed the information, “Okay.”

Mickey watched her for another second before deciding that would do.

He would never admit it out loud, yet somewhere in the back of his mind he carried a small and extremely well hidden soft spot for Debbie Gallagher, not because she had done anything special and definitely not because she was particularly reliable, but because she had Ian’s eyes and that alone was enough to buy her a little trust.

But he said it anyway, “No drugs.”

Debbie looked offended immediately.

“I’m not doing drugs in your apartment.”

“There’s cold beer in the fridge,” Mickey added, then another finger appeared. “No girls, no boys, no whatever the hell you’re fucking now.”

Ian snorted beside him.

Debbie rolled her eyes.

“Relax.”

The tension broke when Mickey crouched beside Franny and ran a hand through her hair.

“If you behave,” he said, “I’ll bring you a McMeal.”

Franny squeaked happily and wrapped both arms around his leg, and he knew Debbie was watching it with a smile. He wasn't expecting her to whisper a, “Softie.”

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“Nothing.”

“Sounded like softie.”

“Definitely didn’t say that.”

Ian grabbed his hand before the conversation could escalate.

“Come on,” he said while pulling him toward the door. “Let’s go.”

One last stop happened before leaving because both of them leaned over the bassinet, where the baby slept peacefully with one small hand resting near her cheek while Ian checked the blanket and Mickey ran through the feeding schedule in his head one more time.

Then they stepped away.

The hallway outside the apartment felt strange after weeks of staying home, and Ian closed the door behind them before letting out a quiet okay.

They walked down the stairs without talking at first, but once they reached the sidewalk Ian glanced at him and said, “We could go to that Italian place you like.”

Mickey considered the suggestion for exactly half a second.

“Or we can rent a cheap motel room and fuck for the next three hours.”

Ian stopped walking, and a kiss landed on Mickey’s mouth before Ian grabbed his hand again, “Come on.”

Ah, victory tasted good.

Four months had completely reshaped the rhythm of the apartment, which meant the place that once looked like two grown men lived there now looked like a small ecosystem organized around a loud and surprisingly opinionated infant, and although the west side apartment already felt suspiciously fancy for someone who had grown up in Terry Milkovich’s house, Mickey had recently started browsing listings for actual houses anyway because several parents on Reddit insisted that babies required sunlight and grass and something called stimulating outdoor environments, which apparently translated to vitamin D and a yard.

A dozen tabs now lived permanently open on Mickey’s phone.

Houses with gardens.

Houses with small fences.

Houses with two bedrooms.

Houses that looked expensive enough to make him suspicious but still came with trees.

Every few days he showed one of them to Ian, and every single time Ian reacted the same way.

Tonight proved no different.

The baby slept on Mickey’s chest while he lay across the bed scrolling through pictures of a house with a small backyard and an ugly wooden fence, and every few minutes the kid snorted in that strange little way babies did when they were deeply asleep, which Mickey had learned meant she was comfortable enough to stay exactly where she was.

“She’s gonna need a yard,” he said while tilting the phone toward Ian.

Ian sat at the edge of the bed pulling off his shoes after work.

“We have a balcony.”

“That’s not grass.”

“She’s four months old.”

“Still.”

The phone lifted so Ian could see the screen.

“Look at this one. Two bedrooms, yard, decent neighborhood.”

Ian leaned over just enough to glance at the picture before looking back at him with those big confused eyes that had somehow carried him through his entire life.

“We don’t even have a name for her yet.”

Mickey glanced down at the baby sleeping on his chest, then he shrugged, “Maybe her name should just be Baby.”

Ian blinked.

“You sure you want every guy you know calling her baby?”

Well.

Fuck.

Ian had a point.

Mickey stared at the ceiling while thinking it through for a second before answering.

“Maybe we should call her Fuck No then.”

Ian snorted while crawling onto the bed and settling beside them, pressing himself close enough that his shoulder touched Mickey’s arm while his head landed on the pillow next to Mickey’s neck.

Work had clearly left its usual traces behind.

Sweat lingered faintly on his skin along with the familiar smell of weed that clung to his clothes after long shifts, and the moment Mickey noticed it he had to fight the instinct to roll over and lick him from ankle to mouth because the urge arrived without any kind of subtlety.

Instead he stayed where he was and allowed Ian to settle beside them while the baby continued snoring quietly.

“No,” Ian said while pressing his face against Mickey’s neck. “But seriously, we need to give her a name.”

Mickey sighed.

“Fine,” his phone dropped onto the mattress. “I got some names I like.”

Ian shifted so his cheek rested against Mickey’s shoulder while one arm draped loosely across Mickey’s stomach.

“Same.”

“Let’s hear yours.”

“No,” Ian said with a grin pressed into his skin. “We do it fair.”

“How?”

“We say all the names we like and the ones we both like go to round two.”

“That sounds stupid.”

Ian nudged him with his shoulder, “Come on.”

Another sigh.

“Fine.”

Mickey glanced down at the baby, who remained completely unaware of the debate happening above her head.

“First one.”

Ian waited.

“Alex.”

Ian shook his head immediately.

“Too normal.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means Alex sounds like someone who files taxes early.”

“Taxes are important.”

“Not for a baby.”

“Your turn then.”

Ian thought for a moment and said, “Lena.”

Mickey considered it for a few seconds before shaking his head.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Sounds like someone who judges people.”

“You judge people.”

“That’s different.”

Ian laughed quietly.

“Okay next one.”

Mickey scratched the back of his neck.

“Riley.”

Ian tilted his head while thinking, “Maybe.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“That’s a maybe.”

“Next.”

Ian looked thoughtful again for a whole second before saying, “Jupiter.”

Mickey stared at him, “Absolutely the fuck not.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s a planet.”

“People name kids after planets.”

“People are idiots.”

Ian grinned, “Your turn.”

“Max.”

“That’s a dog name.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is.”

“Whatever.”

The baby shifted slightly on Mickey’s chest before settling again.

Ian watched her for a moment.

“Okay,” he said. “What about Ellie?”

Mickey thought about it, then shrugged, “Maybe.”

“That’s two maybes.”

“Don’t get excited.”

Ian continued.

“River.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“That’s some hippie bullshit.”

Ian laughed again, “Okay, okay.”

Mickey ran a hand through his hair.

“Jordan.”

Ian made a face.

“Basketball player name.”

“Lots of people are named Jordan.”

The list continued.

“Lucy.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Too innocent.”

“Nova.”

“Sounds like a spaceship.”

“Hazel.”

“Sounds like an old lady.”

“Aria.”

“That’s a singer.”

“Scarlett.”

“Marvel character.”

Ian poked his shoulder.

“You’re impossible.”

“You suggested Jupiter.”

“Jupiter is cool.”

“That kid would get bullied.”

“Kids get bullied for everything.”

“That’s why we minimize the damage.”

Ian laughed again before falling quiet for a moment, then he glanced down, “You know she’s going to grow up thinking her name is Baby.”

“That’s because it might be.”

Ian looked at him again, “Okay, I have another one.”

“What?”

“Maya.”

Mickey paused, then slowly shook his head, “No.”

Ian groaned, “You hate everything.”

“Not everything.”

“Then name something you like.”

Mickey stared at the ceiling while thinking.

Then he said, “Sam.”

Ian blinked.

“Sam?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not terrible.”

“That’s basically a yes.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“You literally said it wasn’t terrible.”

“That’s still not a yes.”

Mickey groaned.

“This system is bullshit.”

Ian laughed into his shoulder, then his hand slid down to the baby’s tiny foot.

“She doesn’t care,” he said quietly.

“She probably should.”

“She’s happy.”

“Because she doesn’t know her parents are idiots.”

Mickey looked down at the baby again while her tiny mouth opened in sleep and her cheeks puffed out with the rhythm of breathing, and the sight hit him in the chest the same way it had been hitting him for weeks now, that ridiculous and almost embarrassing rush of affection that made him feel like someone had slipped something strange drug into his bloodstream.

“She looks like you,” he said.

Ian smiled and leaned forward enough to brush a kiss along Mickey’s jaw, lingering just long enough to make Mickey aware of how close he was lying beside him.

The baby snorted again, and he lifted one hand and gently poked her round little belly with a fingertip.

Another poke followed.

Then another.

“How can I fucking love a thing that doesn’t even know how to clean her own ass this much?”

And yeah, he loved her.

Not only because she carried Ian’s face in miniature form or because her hair already leaned toward that bright Gallagher red or because she had been born into their life through some ridiculous chain of circumstances that still felt half unreal.

He loved her because she was his and because she had started smiling.

That had changed everything.

The first time it happened Mickey had been walking around the apartment half asleep while holding her against his shoulder, complaining out loud about pigeons on the balcony and how those little feathered assholes had no respect for property lines, and she had suddenly looked at him and smiled like she understood and agreed with whatever shit he was saying.

Since then it kept happening.

She smiled when he held her.

She smiled during baths when he carefully washed her hair while trying not to get soap in her eyes.

She smiled while he fed her.

Sometimes she even smiled when she woke up and saw him there.

When they walked around the block she stared at him while he cursed at traffic or random drivers, and every time he looked down she seemed convinced that he was somehow half of her entire world.

Which was ridiculous and terrifying and, apparently, it was also permanent.

Loving her felt a little dangerous.

The baby shifted against his chest while making a small complaining sound that meant nothing more than adjusting in her sleep.

Ian watched the interaction for a moment before searching for Mickey’s hand and squeezing it once.

“She’ll learn how to clean her own ass eventually.”

Mickey snorted.

“But what if I don’t want that?” He said while poking her belly again. “What if I want her to stay pocket size until we die?”

Ian laughed quietly and the sound made the baby twitch like she didn't appreciate the disturbance.

“Careful,” Mickey said. “You’re gonna wake her.”

“I didn’t even do anything.”

“You breathed wrong.”

Ian shifted on the pillow and then rolled onto his side so he could rest his head against his hand while looking down at Mickey and the baby both at once.

A few seconds passed before he spoke again, “You know I love you, right?”

“Yeah,” Mickey answered immediately, although the simple sentence still made his chest feel tight every time Ian said it. “I know.”

The words always did that.

Ian smiled a little.

“Didn’t think it was possible to love you even more,” he said while studying Mickey’s face, “but then every morning I wake up loving you more than the day before.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Mickey groaned while turning his head away because he could feel heat creeping across his face and he hated that reaction more than almost anything.

The instinct to punch Ian lightly in the chest arrived immediately, except the baby slept right there on top of him, which meant movement was restricted and Ian knew exactly what he was doing.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Mickey said.

“Doing what?”

“This,” he replied, waving his hand vaguely between them without actually moving enough to disturb the baby.

Ian grinned.

“You like it.”

“I don't.”

“You absolutely do.”

“Shut up.”

Silence stretched for a moment while the baby slept peacefully through the entire conversation.

She looked impossibly small, so he poked her belly one more time.

“You’re good at this,” Ian said quietly.

“At what?”

“Being her dad.”

Mickey snorted, “I clean shit and hold bottles.”

“You do more than that.”

“Like what?”

“You talk to her.”

“I complain around her.”

“You sing to her.”

“That happened once.”

“You walked around the block for an hour because she wouldn’t stop crying.”

“Because I didn't want our neighbors bitching.”

Ian smiled again and whispered, “She looks at you like you invented the world.”

“That’s because she doesn’t know any better.”

Ian shifted closer and kissed his shoulder, saying the next words against his skin, “You’re her favorite person.”

“Bullshit.”

“You absolutely are.”

“Babies don’t have favorites.”

“She smiles at you more than she smiles at me.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

Mickey poked the baby’s belly again.

“Hey,” he said. “You got a favorite parent.”

The baby snorted in her sleep.

“See,” Mickey said. “She said me.”

Ian laughed, then he reached over and brushed his fingers through Mickey’s hair.

“You’re really good at this,” he repeated.

Mickey rolled his eyes even though his chest felt uncomfortably full.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Stop it.”

“Never.”

Ian leaned forward again and kissed his temple.

Mickey stared at the ceiling while the warmth in his chest refused to go away, and he thought that happiness felt strange. Almost unbelievable. But he was happy enough to die.

Lip’s house had turned into the kind of domestic scene nobody in the Gallagher family would have believed possible ten years earlier, because the backyard now held a wooden table covered with drinks and half assembled barbecue supplies while kids ran across the grass in every direction and the adults pretended the whole thing was perfectly normal, which still felt suspicious considering how most Gallagher gatherings used to end with someone getting punched or arrested.

The sandbox sat in the corner of the yard like Lip’s proudest achievement, which he had already reminded everyone about at least twice since they arrived, and inside it Liam, Franny, and Freddie were conducting what looked like some kind of excavation project even though the only tools involved were a plastic shovel and a broken bucket.

Freddie had recently learned how to walk and had decided the backyard belonged entirely to him, so he marched through the sand with the wobbly confidence of someone who had absolutely no idea how fragile balance could be while Franny followed him like a suspicious supervisor and Liam sat nearby trying to maintain order.

“Don’t eat the sand,” Liam told Freddie but Freddie ignored him completely.

Across the yard Lip stood at the grill turning burgers while Ian worked beside him passing plates and occasionally opening beers for his other siblings, which created a surprisingly efficient system where Lip handled heat and Ian handled food like they had been running backyard barbecues their entire lives.

Mickey sat at the wooden table holding the baby while Debbie and Tami talked about kids and daycare and feeding schedules, and Carl occupied the last chair leaning back while producing a series of strange noises with his mouth that ranged from clicking sounds to exaggerated chirps.

The baby loved it.

Every time Carl puffed his cheeks or made some ridiculous noise she burst into delighted laughter, which clearly encouraged him to continue performing like a one man circus.

“See,” Carl said proudly while making another ridiculous sound. “She likes me.”

“She likes anything that makes noise,” Mickey answered while adjusting the baby on his knee because she had started wiggling again.

Carl responded with another noise, and the baby laughed harder.

Debbie leaned forward immediately.

“That one is definitely your kid,” she said to him. “She laughs at stupid shit.”

“Watch your mouth,” Mickey replied automatically even though the baby had absolutely no idea what Debbie had said.

Tami watched the scene while sipping her drink, “She looks a lot like Ian.”

“That’s because Gallagher genes are aggressive,” Mickey answered.

Conversation shifted back toward Debbie and Tami while Carl kept entertaining the baby with strange noises that made her laugh every few seconds.

“So daycare,” Debbie said while leaning back in her chair. “That was a whole thing when I started looking for places for Franny.”

Tami nodded.

“I’ve been looking too. Some of them have waiting lists.”

Mickey bounced the baby gently while listening.

“What kind of waiting lists?”

“Months,” Tami answered. “Sometimes longer.”

“That’s stupid.”

“That’s childcare.”

Debbie laughed, “You should have seen the interviews they gave me.”

“What interviews?”

“Daycare interviews,” Debbie said. “They wanted to know everything about me and Franny and our living situation and what kind of family we were.”

Carl smirked, “That must have been entertaining.”

Debbie rolled her eyes, “One place practically begged me to leave Franny there.”

Mickey raised an eyebrow.

“Why?”

“Because apparently they want to advertise diversity,” Debbie explained while sipping her drink. “The director said something like we’re proud to support all kinds of families and then asked if I would be comfortable mentioning that I’m a lesbian mom when other parents asked questions.”

Carl snorted, “So you’re a marketing strategy.”

“Pretty much.”

Tami laughed, “That’s actually kind of funny.”

“They were serious,” Debbie continued. “They kept talking about how important it was to show daycare is welcoming to everyone.”

Mickey leaned back while thinking about that.

“So they want the gay families?”

“They want the gay families,” Debbie confirmed.

Tami nodded.

“Same thing happened when we toured one place for Freddie. They asked if we had friends or relatives with diverse family structures.”

Carl looked confused.

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means two dads,” Debbie said while pointing toward Mickey.

Carl turned toward him.

“Well congratulations,” he said. “You’re daycare diversity.”

Mickey rolled his eyes.

“Fantastic.”

The baby grabbed his shirt while chewing on the fabric.

Tami smiled and said, “There are some good ones around here actually.”

Mickey nodded once, “Send the names.”

“Bet you're making lists already.” Debbie said with a smile and Mickey lifted his hand to flip her the middle finger.

“Eat shit.”

The conversation paused when Ian walked across the yard and leaned down behind Mickey’s chair to kiss him quickly.

The kiss tasted like beer.

Ian kissed the top of their baby's head next.

“Everything good here?”

“Your daughter is conspiring with Carl,” Mickey said.

Ian glanced toward Carl.

“That’s dangerous.”

Carl shrugged.

“She likes me.”

Ian smiled, “She likes everyone.”

Debbie watched them for a moment before shaking her head, “It’s still crazy how functional you two are.”

Mickey showed her his middle finger again.

“Fuck you.”

“But it’s true,” she continued. “You guys are like a weirdly stable couple now.”

Ian leaned against Mickey’s chair, “You’re all jealous.”

“Of what?” Carl asked.

“Our domestic bliss.”

Mickey snorted.

“Shut the fuck up,” the words came out almost automatic while Ian laughed and moved the chair closer before sitting beside him, sliding one arm around Mickey’s shoulders in the same casual way he had been doing for years while reaching for the baby with the other hand.

“Come here,” Ian said softly to the kid, who immediately turned toward him with bright eyes as he lifted her from Mickey’s lap and settled her against his chest, adjusting the small blanket around her legs before leaning back in the chair while still keeping his arm around Mickey’s shoulders.

\Without thinking about it he leaned his head against Ian’s shoulder, because that had always been the easiest place in the world to rest.

“Look at that,” Carl said from across the table. “Family portrait.”

“Eat shit,” Mickey replied without lifting his head.

Conversation around the table continued because the Gallagher family had never needed silence to process anything and certainly would not start now, so Debbie went back to talking with Tami about daycare waitlists and paperwork while Carl leaned back in his chair making more ridiculous noises toward the baby every few minutes just to see if he could make her laugh again.

It worked most of the time.

“She’s going to remember me as the cool uncle,” Carl announced proudly.

“You’re not cool,” Debbie answered.

“I’m a cop.”

“That makes it worse.”

Carl looked offended.

Mickey listened to the conversation drift across the table while his cheek stayed pressed against Ian’s shoulder and the baby rested against Ian’s chest, and every now and then he snorted when someone said something particularly stupid, although most of the time he simply let the voices move around him like background noise.

Freddie escaped the sandbox again, Liam chased him again and Lip shouted something from the grill about someone grabbing the ketchup.

Franny landed on Mickey’s feet. She sat down cross legged on the grass right in front of him while holding a handful of crayons and a folded piece of paper.

“Don’t move,” she said.

Mickey looked down.

“What?”

“I’m drawing.”

“On what?”

“Your legs.”

Mickey stared at her for a moment, then he shrugged.

“Fine.”

Franny leaned forward and used his knees as a backrest while pressing the paper against them and beginning to draw. Ian glanced down and asked, “What’s she drawing?”

“A monster,” Franny answered without looking up.

Carl leaned over the table.

“Make it a cop monster.”

Franny shook her head.

“It’s a dinosaur.”

“That’s better,” Mickey said.

The baby shifted in Ian’s arms while making a quiet sound, which made Ian adjust his hold automatically so she rested more comfortably against his chest.

Ian always did that.

Little adjustments with careful hands.

Mickey's fingers moved lightly across the baby’s foot where it rested against Ian’s arm.

“You look comfortable,” the redhead said.

“Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Stop saying things.”

Franny finished the drawing and proudly held it up.

“It’s the dinosaur,” she announced.

Mickey looked down at the paper balanced on his knees.

“That’s a good fucking dinosaur.”

“Don’t say fuck,” Debbie said automatically.

“Fuck,” Mickey repeated.

Franny giggled, making Ian laugh softly beside him, and somewhere in the middle of all that noise and movement, Mickey realized he actually liked this little life.

Sunday mornings had turned into a park routine during the past few months. While most of the city drifted through a slow start to the day with coffee cups and quiet sidewalks, Mickey Milkovich stood beside a stroller near the paved running path of a suspiciously nice park only a few blocks from their condo. He held a neon colored slushie in one hand and pushed the stroller lazily with the other, occasionally adjusting the small canopy above the seat because the sunlight filtered through the trees overhead and he had read somewhere online that babies burned faster than adults. Mickey had no intention of finding out whether that particular piece of parenting advice was true the hard way.

Seven months ago this kid had been small enough to fit entirely along his forearm with her head tucked under his chin, and now she sat upright in the stroller seat wearing tiny shoes that served no practical purpose whatsoever other than looking ridiculous while she kicked them enthusiastically every time a pigeon strutted across the path or a runner passed by with headphones and bright colored sneakers.

Across the path Ian Gallagher ran another lap.

He had insisted on bringing running clothes.

Mickey had insisted on bringing the stroller.

That arrangement worked perfectly fine because Ian loved running and Mickey loved sitting down while drinking something sugary while pretending he was supervising the exercise.

Another runner passed, then Ian appeared again rounding the curve of the path with sweat darkening the front of his shirt while his hair pushed back from his forehead and his breathing stayed controlled in that annoying Gallagher way that made it look easy even though Mickey knew perfectly well that running in circles voluntarily qualified as a form of insanity.

“Lap six,” Ian said when he passed them.

“Congratu-fucking-lations,” Mickey answered without standing up.

The baby kicked her feet when Ian ran by and waved a hand that had no idea how to wave yet.

Ian grinned.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

“Where the fuck would we go?”

Ian kept running.

Mickey took another long sip of the slushie and leaned over the stroller while adjusting the canopy again even though the kid clearly did not give a single shit about the sunlight.

“Your other dad is insane,” he told her.

She grabbed the edge of the stroller tray and stared up at him with those big green eyes that looked exactly like Ian’s, which meant Mickey had spent the last seven months feeling like the universe had played some kind of elaborate genetic joke by handing him a kid who looked like a miniature Gallagher.

The phone rested in his other hand because he was once again checking parenting websites.

He read out loud because apparently that was what parents did now.

“According to this bullshit you can start introducing solid foods around six months if the baby can sit upright and shows interest in food, which you definitely do because last night you tried to steal my sandwich like a tiny criminal.”

The baby made a noise that sounded suspiciously pleased with herself.

Another runner passed.

Ian appeared again a moment later, so Mickey lifted the phone and called him name when he came close enough to hear, “Apparently we can try mashed bananas.”

The redhead slowed a little while jogging past and said, “Bananas are safe.”

“Also sweet potato.”

“That one sounds healthier.”

“Avocado.”

“That one sounds expensive,” Ian grinned while continuing past them again. “Write it down.”

“I already did.”

The baby watched Ian disappear around the path, then grabbed one of her shoes and tried to pull it off.

“Don’t eat that,” Mickey said.

Another lap passed.

Then another.

Ian eventually slowed to a stop in front of them while bending with his hands on his hips as he caught his breath before leaning forward to look into the stroller.

“How’s she doing?”

“Full of vitamins.”

Ian looked down, smiled at her and whispered a happy, “Hey.”

Her legs kicked again, and Mickey watched the entire interaction while finishing another sip of the slushie.

“You’re dripping,” he said.

“That happens when people exercise.”

“Looks illegal in at least forty five countries.”

Ian laughed while leaning closer to the stroller, then the baby blinked up at him, opened her mouth and babble, “Baba.”

Mickey’s brain went completely blank for half a second before his entire body reacted at once.

“What the fuck.”

Ian froze.

“Did she just...?”

“Holy shit she did.”

Mickey almost dropped the slushie while grabbing his phone and fumbling with the camera.

“Say it again,” he told the baby while pointing the phone toward her face.

She looked at him, and her tiny mouth opened again, “Baba.”

The sound came out clear enough that the phone picked it up immediately.

Mickey made a high noise that he would later deny making.

“Oh my fucking god.”

She looked directly at the phone and started again, “Bababababa,” and then, "Bababababababa."

Ian burst into laughter that sounded so bright a couple walking past glanced over.

Mickey turned the phone around to include both of them in the frame, “You hear that?” He announced loudly, “She just said her first word.”

Two girls jogging by slowed when they heard him.

“My kid just said her first words,” he added proudly.

“Congratulations,” one of them said before they kept running.

Mickey nodded like a man accepting an award.

“Thank you.”

Ian crouched beside the stroller again and looked down at the baby with a huge smile all over his face, “Hey baby.”

She stared at him.

“Baba.”

Ian looked like he might explode. “You’re a genius,” he told her.

Mickey turned the camera toward himself.

“You hear this,” he said. “Seven months old and already smarter than half the people I know.”

“I’m sending this video to Lip.”

“Send it to Debbie too.”

“I’m sending it to everyone.”

Ian leaned closer again and kissed the side of Mickey’s head before gently brushing his thumb across the baby’s cheek, while Mickey leaned forward again and kissed the baby’s forehead one more time.

“Yeah,” he said quietly while glancing at Ian. “That’s us. Your baba's.”

Seven months had turned the baby into a creature that produced noise almost constantly, which meant the apartment no longer remembered silence the way it used to. Even when she felt calm, she filled the air with strings of nonsense syllables that rolled together like tiny experiments in language, and over time Mickey had begun recognizing certain rhythms in the babbling even though none of the sounds technically meant anything yet.

“Babababa,” she announced one afternoon while sitting upright on the living room rug with the stiff determination of a human being who had recently discovered balance but hadn't yet mastered grace, which still made her look like a potato that had learned to sit, a potato that kicked her feet and slapped her hands against the floor while delivering entire speeches to the coffee table.

Teeth were coming in.

That single biological event had changed the emotional climate of the household more effectively than anything else during the previous months, because the baby who had once been suspiciously calm now had aching gums and very strong opinions about that pain, and since the only communication tool available to her involved crying loudly enough to wake both of them no matter how exhausted they already were, the nights had turned into fragmented stretches of sleep that never quite reached the deep rest they remembered from before she existed.

Sometimes the crying started once.

Sometimes three times.

Sometimes five.

It depended entirely on the night, which meant the routine had become familiar even if the exhaustion kept settling deeper into their bones. When the baby woke up crying at two in the morning, the sound reached both of them at the exact same moment.

Mickey opened one eye.

Ian opened both.

The crying continued while their brains tried to process what was happening.

“It's your time,” Ian said eventually after a long breath.

Mickey groaned and pushed himself upright, “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

The crib sat beside the bed, and inside it the baby stood gripping the rail like a small furious dictator whose entire political platform involved protesting tooth pain.

“Alright,” Mickey said while lifting her out carefully, because despite the anger in her face she immediately leaned against his shoulder as soon as he picked her up.

“She’s chewing everything,” Ian said from the bed while rubbing his face.

“That’s because teeth are stupid.”

The baby complained again, which meant Mickey carried her toward the kitchen while the apartment stayed quiet except for the occasional car outside and the small frustrated sounds she produced while gnawing angrily on the rubber teether he placed in her mouth.

Ian followed a minute later and leaned against the counter with half closed eyes.

“Three times tonight,” he said.

“Four.”

“Four?”

“She woke up earlier.”

Ian rubbed his face again.

“Jesus.”

Mickey paced the kitchen while bouncing the baby because movement seemed to help, and while she chewed the rubber toy, he glanced at Ian and said, “You should sleep.”

“You should sleep.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“Neither is the kid chewing the coffee table.”

Ian looked at the baby chewing the toy with deep concentration and whispered,“She looks mad.”

“She is mad.” Mickey said with a sigh. “Teeth are bullshit.”

The baby paused and looked between them before announcing another string of babbling. Both of them stayed there quietly watching her chew the toy while blinking sleep out of their eyes until Mickey finally handed her to Ian and said, “Your turn.”

Ian took her automatically and she grabbed his shirt immediately while another small babble escaped.

“Baba.”

Mickey leaned against the counter, “Don’t start.”

Ian laughed softly and said extremely softly, “She likes that word.”

“She likes all words.”

“Still.”

The baby attempted to chew Ian’s collar.

“Hey,” he said.

Mickey took the teether and replaced the collar with rubber.

“That’s not edible.”

“She disagrees.”

Time passed slowly in the middle of the night and the crying didn't return immediately, which meant the quiet moment stretched long enough that the baby eventually grew heavy in Ian’s arms while Mickey watched him sway in place.

“You’re falling asleep standing up.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Ian blinked harder, “Maybe a little.”

Mickey took the baby again before saying, “Go lie down.”

Ian walked back toward the bedroom like someone crossing a desert, and after the baby returned to the crib without protest and rolled onto her side, the apartment finally looked sleepable.

Mickey crawled into bed beside Ian, closed his eyes, but five minutes later the crying started again.

“Fuck.”

Ian groaned into the pillow, “Not again.”

“Your turn.”

The redhead dragged a hand through his hair and stood up before walking to the crib while Mickey watched, noticing the exhaustion in every movement as Ian lifted the baby and began bouncing her gently.

“You’re killing us,” he told her.

She responded with an angry babble.

“Yeah, I know.”

Mickey rubbed his eyes and tapped the bed by his side, “Bring her here.”

Ian returned to the bed and sat down with the baby while Mickey leaned against the headboard, and for a moment they simply stayed there together while she complained and Ian rocked her with patient movements that had become instinct over the past months.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Ian said eventually.

“What thing?”

“Staring.”

“You look tired.”

“You look worse.”

“That’s because I woke up four times.”

Ian snorted.

“That was both of us.”

A small cry escaped again, so Mickey grabbed the teether from the nightstand and handed it over while saying, “Try this.”

The baby chewed.

Peace returned.

After a while Ian leaned back against the headboard beside Mickey and their shoulders touched while the baby sat between them gnawing the toy with impressive dedication.

Exhaustion pressed down on both of them.

“You good?” Mickey asked eventually.

Ian nodded, “Yeah.”

Another small complaint escaped her, so Ian lifted her against his chest again with the careful movements Mickey had watched a thousand times already.

A few minutes later her head drooped.

Sleep again.

Ian placed her back in the crib and this time she stayed asleep long enough for both men to collapse back onto the bed while the apartment returned to silence.

“Hey,” Ian said after a moment.

“What?”

“You’re doing good.”

Mickey opened one eye.

“At what?”

“Dad stuff.”

Mickey snorted.

“You're also doing good.”

“Yeah,” Ian turned his head slightly on the pillow while the baby stirred once and then settled again. “I guess we're doing okay.”

Mickey reached across the mattress and grabbed Ian’s wrist, and Ian squeezed his hand once before the three of them falling asleep.

Nine months had turned the baby into a small, determined little fucker who refused to stay in one place for longer than thirty seconds. The apartment that had once felt spacious enough for two adults now looked like a maze of temporary barricades and strategically rearranged furniture designed to keep a crawling human from discovering electrical outlets, table corners, or any other object capable of injuring someone who had recently learned how to move across the floor with surprising speed and even greater curiosity.

She crawled everywhere, disappearing under the coffee table, charging toward the couch, and slapping her hands against the floor while aiming directly for the kitchen cabinets like a tiny explorer who believed the entire apartment existed solely for her investigation.

For a while the apartment managed to contain that energy, although Mickey had begun noticing the way the walls felt closer every week, because crawling meant exploration and exploration required space. The more the kid learned to move, the more he caught himself imagining grass under her hands instead of the living room rug.

The thought returned and then refused to leave.

A yard meant grass, grass meant sunlight, and sunlight apparently meant all the vitamins people on the internet insisted children required in order to grow into healthy adults who didn't chew table legs or scream at three in the morning.

So houses entered the conversation.

Not immediately, because at first it simply meant browsing listings while sitting on the couch with the baby climbing across his legs like a little animal, but later it turned into visiting open houses on weekends while pushing the stroller through west side streets that looked nothing like the neighborhoods either of them had grown up in.

Several houses had already been rejected for reasons that ranged from stupid to practical, because some were too small while others were too expensive, some had stairs that made Mickey stare at the baby and imagine emergency room visits, and some advertised yards that looked decent in photographs but turned out to be muddy rectangles that would turn into disaster the moment it rained.

Until one Saturday morning they visited another house.

The stroller rolled along a quiet west side street. Ahead of them, the real estate agent kept talking about square footage, neighborhood growth, and property values. Mickey barely listened. His attention had already settled on the yard behind the house. Actual grass covered most of the ground, and a small fence surrounded the property, which meant the baby could crawl across it without reaching traffic or strangers or whatever else people worried about when they imagined kids playing outside.

Ian noticed the look immediately.

“You like this one.”

“Maybe.”

The house had only one floor, and that detail alone earned points because stairs were stupid, stairs were dangerous, and stairs meant carrying a baby up and down while half asleep at three in the morning, whereas one floor meant walking from room to room without thinking.

The agent unlocked the door, and inside looked clean.

Not fancy, just clean.

And there were three bedrooms.

For months the baby had slept beside their bed, because that was what everyone recommended when babies were very small. Recently, though, she had started rolling around during sleep, gripping the crib rails and announcing long babbling speeches to the darkness, which meant the idea of giving her an actual bedroom no longer sounded like luxury but more like survival.

Mickey walked through the living room first. The baby sat upright in the stroller, staring around the house with wide curiosity.

“She’s inspecting,” Ian said.

“She’s judging.”

The kitchen sat at the back of the house with a window looking directly toward the yard, and Mickey stood there longer than necessary while imagining a high chair near the table and the baby throwing pieces of banana onto the floor while Ian complained about food waste.

“You’re thinking again,” Ian said quietly.

“Yeah.”

Meanwhile the agent continued explaining nearby schools, parks, and local markets, which included an important detail because those markets were not organic boutique nonsense but regular places that sold affordable food.

The hallway contained three doors, and when he opened the first door, he found a bedroom large enough for a bed. The second door revealed a smaller room that looked perfect for a crib and whatever other ridiculous furniture babies apparently required.

He stayed there for a moment, and he noticed Ian leaning against the doorway.

“You’re doing that staring thing again.”

“Shut up.”

Behind them, the baby announced another loud string of babbling from the stroller.

“Babadaaa. Dadaba.”

“She approves,” Ian said.

“Of course she does.”

The third bedroom looked like an office, which didn't matter because the yard mattered.

They stepped outside, and grass covered most of the space. The baby leaned forward inside the stroller like she was trying to see everything at once.

“You see this,” Mickey said while pointing toward the yard.

“Yeah.”

“She could crawl here.”

Ian nodded slowly, “She could.”

“And when she starts walking, she won’t run straight into traffic.”

“Also good.”

A few birds hopped along the fence and the baby noticed immediately, which meant her legs began kicking again.

They stood there for a moment while the agent finished explaining taxes and neighborhood details, and Mickey listened just enough to confirm the numbers worked.

Ian glanced toward him again and asked, “You want it?”

“Yeah, I do.”

The baby slapped the stroller tray.

“Baba.”

Ian laughed, “She’s voting.”

“Her vote counts double.”

The redhead bent down and lifted her from the stroller with an easy motion before setting her carefully onto the grass.

The baby froze and stared at the ground beneath her like it might suddenly move or bite. Her small fingers opened and closed while she studied the strange green texture under her hands, then a delighted sound burst out of her.

A laugh.

Mickey watched with a smile as Ian lowered himself onto the grass nearby while the baby slapped both hands down on the ground.

“She likes it.”

“She’s a smart kid.”

“She gets that from me.”

“Debatable.”

Ian looked up at him, “You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Mickey crouched beside them, knees pressing into the grass, just as the baby grabbed his finger with both hands. Tiny blades of grass stuck to her palms and smeared against his skin while she tried to pull his hand toward her mouth.

“You’re filthy already,” he said.

She laughed again, louder this time, her entire body rocking with it.

Ian leaned back on his hands while watching the two of them, the sunlight catching in his hair while the baby kept patting Mickey’s hand. Then, with a soft, soft voice, he said, “You’re picturing it.”

“Maybe.”

“Her room,” Ian added quietly.

Mickey nodded once.

The baby suddenly turned and crawled across the grass toward a small patch of shade near the fence, her knees moving fast while Ian shifted forward to follow behind her before she reached the dirt.

Mickey stayed where he was for a moment longer.

He turned his head and looked back toward the house.

There was three bedrooms, one floor, a small yard, and some schools nearby. It was the kind of neighborhood where people walked dogs and watered plants in the evenings. It wasn't perfect, but it was way better than what Mickey and Ian had when they were kids, and it was somewhere where they could have easy mornings and quiet nights.

“Hey,” Ian called from the grass.

“What.”

“Are you coming?”

Mickey stepped toward them while the baby turned around immediately, like she had sensed him moving, and crawled back in his direction like she already knew exactly where she belonged.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m coming.”

Birthdays had never meant much to Mickey Milkovich when he was younger, mostly because growing up in Terry Milkovich’s house meant that dates on a calendar passed like any other day unless someone happened to get drunk enough to remember them. Which was why the idea of sitting in a restaurant with his husband and their nearly ten month old daughter while people brought food to the table still felt strange enough that he kept glancing around the room like someone might eventually realize they didn't belong there and politely ask them to leave.

The baby sat in the high chair between them, and ten months had already changed her in a hundred small ways that seemed to arrive all at once, because the thin newborn fuzz that once covered her head had turned into thicker red hair that refused to stay flat no matter how many times Ian tried smoothing it down, while the round cheeks she had grown into made Mickey stare at her sometimes with the violent urge to bite them just to see if she would laugh.

Tonight she wore a yellow dress printed with tiny white flowers and small puffed sleeves, which made her look like the kind of baby who belonged in advertisements for baby food instead of the kid who spent most mornings crawling across the living room floor trying to chew electrical cords.

“She looks ridiculous,” Mickey had said earlier while Ian fastened the strap of the high chair.

“She looks adorable.”

“She looks like a fucking sunflower.”

“That’s still adorable.”

Now she sat there happily slapping the tray while staring at everything around her, which made sense considering it was the first time they had taken her out during the evening instead of the afternoon, and Mickey had spent the first twenty minutes scanning the room carefully just to make sure the lighting wasn't too bright, the music wasn't too loud, and nobody nearby was the type who shouted into their phones during dinner.

Everything seemed fine.

The baby had eaten mashed vegetables from a small container Ian had packed in the diaper bag, although she approached the task with the messy enthusiasm of someone who believed food belonged everywhere except inside her mouth, which meant half of it landed on the tray, some landed on the dress, and one small piece had somehow ended up in Mickey’s hair while she watched the results with enormous satisfaction.

Every waitress who passed the table slowed down long enough to look at her.

“Oh my god, she’s so cute.”

“She’s adorable.”

“Look at her little dress.”

Each compliment made Mickey sit a little straighter in his chair while pretending not to care, although the feeling that spread through his chest whenever someone praised the baby made it impossible not to feel stupidly proud.

“She’s flirting,” Ian said while watching the baby wave her hand toward another waitress.

“She gets that from you.”

“Bullshit.”

The baby slapped the tray again while a waitress stopped beside the table and leaned down to say, “She’s beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded once when the waitress smiled at the baby’s cheeks. “I know,” he added before she laughed and walked away.

Ian leaned forward and looked at him with the expression he always wore when he knew exactly what was happening in Mickey’s head.

“You’re proud.”

“I’m not.”

The baby babbled loudly, “Babadabada.”

“She agrees with me,” Ian said.

Dinner finished eventually, and the plates disappeared as the evening went on. When a waitress returned to ask about dessert, Ian ordered something without consulting Mickey, because apparently birthdays meant making decisions for people who pretended they didn’t want cake.

While they waited, the baby grabbed the spoon and tried chewing on it.

“That’s not edible,” Mickey said while removing it from her mouth.

She complained loudly.

“Don’t start.”

Ian laughed and leaned across the table before kissing Mickey gently, which caught him completely off guard.

“What was that for?”

Ian sat back in his chair and announced, “I have a birthday gift for you.”

“You already bought dinner.”

“That’s not the gift.”

Mickey narrowed his eyes, “You better not have bought something stupid.”

Ian picked up his phone before saying, “Just wait.”

The screen lit up and a call started, which made Mickey frown for a moment because the number looked unfamiliar until the phone shifted and the screen filled with a face he hadn't seen in years.

Mandy.

Her hair was blonde now, not the dark color he remembered from every memory of their childhood, but something lighter that framed her face in soft waves, while her cheeks looked healthier than he had ever seen them.

“Mick.”

The sound of her saying his name made him froze for a second, and it took him another second before he could respond.

“What the fuck.”

Ian turned the phone so Mickey could see better.

“Happy birthday,” Mandy said.

For a moment he stayed quiet because the part of him that had spent years pretending he didn't missed her felt dangerously close to cracking open.

“You look like a fucking beach tourist,” he said finally while staring at the blonde hair.

She laughed.

“Miami does that to people.”

“You’re in Miami?”

“Yeah.”

The baby noticed the phone and leaned forward immediately, so Mickey lifted her into his arms so she could see the screen.

“This is your aunt.”

Mandy stared for half a second before her expression changed completely.

“Oh my god,” the words came out fast. “Is that her?”

“Yeah.”

The baby grabbed the edge of the phone while Mandy laughed and wiped her eyes.

“She’s beautiful.”

“She’s a little devil,” Mickey answered while feeling something twist in his chest.

“She looks like Ian.”

“Yeah, but she tough like me.”

Mandy kept staring at the baby like she was memorizing every detail.

“You guys actually did it,” she said in the softest voice ever.

“Did what?”

“Built a life.”

Ian leaned closer to the phone and answered instead, “She crawls everywhere.”

Mandy nodded, “I can see that.”

The baby babbled again.

“Baba.”

Mandy laughed, “She talks already.”

“Mostly complains,” Mickey said.

Another moment passed while Mandy looked at the screen before she spoke again, “I live in Miami now, but I can visit.”

“You better,” Mickey answered immediately.

“I will.”

Ian looked thoughtful for a moment before asking, “What’s a name you like? For girls?”

Mandy blinked at the question.

“You still haven’t named her?”

“Not officially,” Ian said.

She looked from Ian to Mickey and then smiled, “You remember when we were younger?”

Mickey frowned, “What about it?”

“I used to dream about having a sister,” she said while looking directly at him. “Someone to play with me when everything was hell, since you kept saying that you didn't want to play with a girl.”

Mickey stayed quiet for a moment, but then his sister let out a short laugh, the kind that came from remembering something from far back, and she said, “You know, I always liked the name Cecilia.”

Ian repeated the word softly, “Cecilia.”

The baby slapped Mickey’s arm when Ian looked at her and smiled.

“Ceci Gallagher-Milkovich.”

Mickey made a face.

“Kinda sounds like sissy.”

Ian pinched his arm under the table.

“Ouch.”

“Behave.”

“Okay, fuck, sorry.”

He looked at the baby and then back at Mandy.

“Cecilia’s not bad.”

Ian smiled.

“Cecilia, then.”

Mickey stared at the baby while she looked back at him with the same big green eyes she had always had.

“Fancy name for a Milkovich,” he said before glancing at Mandy through the phone. “But Ceci it is.”

A year had turned the small baby who once fit inside the crook of Mickey’s arm into a loud, curious human who crawled, stood, babbled entire speeches to strangers, and attempted to climb anything that looked vaguely climbable, which meant the house they had bought only a few months earlier already looked like the aftermath of a small domestic storm, where half-unpacked boxes leaned against walls, furniture waited to be assembled in corners, and the slow transformation from empty building to family home happened one uneven step at a time while Cecilia Gallagher-Milkovich continued discovering every possible surface she could reach.

Inside, the mess remained impressive, because the hallway still held several boxes that nobody had touched in weeks while the living room contained tools and instruction manuals for furniture that Ian swore he would assemble soon, and the guest bedroom where Mandy now slept contained nothing except a bed and a lamp, because everything else still lived inside cardboard somewhere else in the house. None of that chaos, however, had stopped Mickey from deciding that Ceci was getting a real birthday party, whether the rest of the place looked finished or not.

Outside, the house looked completely different.

The yard had been cleaned the night before and a folding table stood near the back fence covered with plates and drinks and the cake Ian picked up that morning, while yellow balloons tied to sticks dotted the grass in crooked rows because safari themes apparently involved animals and sunshine and cheerful decorations that Mickey would've mocked without mercy a year ago if someone had told him he would be the one organizing them.

Now he stood in the middle of the garden staring at everything with the strange awareness that this entire ridiculous scene somehow belonged to him.

Yellow balloons floated above the grass, paper giraffes and plastic lions decorated the table, and there was a banner stretched across the fence announcing happy first birthday in bright cartoon letters.

The words still felt strange.

Cecilia turned one today.

Not baby anymore.

Cecilia.

Ceci.

The kid wore a yellow onesie covered in little brown spots with a hood that had small giraffe ears stitched on top, which made her look so absurdly cute that Mickey had spent the entire morning staring at her cheeks with the urge to bite them just to hear her laugh again.

She had laughed.

Now she sat in the grass holding the giraffe stuffed animal Mickey bought during the first week she existed in their lives, dragging the toy everywhere and occasionally chewing its ears while checking everyone who walked past.

“Badabama,” she declared proudly while slapping the stuffed giraffe against the ground.

The garden held more people than Mickey usually tolerated in one place although the crowd remained small because this was family and nobody else.

Ian moved between the house and the table carrying plates while Lip and Tami stood near the fence arguing about something, Carl occupied a folding chair with a cold beer, Debbie helped Franny chase runaway balloons across the grass, and Mandy leaned against the porch railing watching everything with a smile that had appeared several times since she arrived the night before.

Kev and V had driven down earlier that morning and now sat near the table while Kev attempted to twist balloons into animals that looked nothing like the creatures he claimed they represented.

“Why the fuck is the giraffe purple?” Mickey asked while passing their table.

Kev held up the balloon proudly, “Because I ran out of yellow ones.”

“That’s not how giraffes look.”

V laughed and took the balloon from him, “Stop harassing him.”

Across the yard, Ceci spotted another balloon drifting above the grass and immediately crawled toward it with the speed that had taken over her entire life during the past three months, which meant Mickey’s attention followed the movement automatically, because watching her had become a reflex he didn't even notice anymore.

She was one year now, and she was no longer the undernourished baby with sparse hair and a quiet, watchful gaze who had appeared in their lives on a Tuesday morning and turned their entire world upside down.

Now her legs were as plump as her flushed cheeks, tiny freckles had begun to appear across the tip of her nose, her hair had grown thicker and longer with every passing week, and the little front teeth peeking through her smile made her look a bit like a mischievous rabbit. Now she also crawled across the grass like a small unstoppable machine, grabbing everything within reach.

“Hey,” he said while stepping closer in case she attempted to eat the balloon string.

She turned immediately and lifted both arms toward him.

The universal signal.

Pick me up.

He did.

The giraffe toy dangled from her hand while she bounced against his chest.

“You’re a loud little fucker,” Mickey told her while adjusting the giraffe hood that had slipped over one eye.

She laughed, because she always laughed whenever Mickey said the word fucker.

Mandy pushed away from the porch railing and walked across the grass toward them. “You weren’t kidding,” she said while stopping beside him. “She never stops moving.”

“Not once.”

Her hand brushed the stuffed giraffe, “She really likes this thing.”

“Best twenty bucks I ever spent.”

Ceci slapped the toy against Mandy’s arm like it was part of a new game, making Mandy laugh.

Across the yard, Ian appeared carrying another tray of food while talking with Lip, and Mickey’s attention shifted toward him automatically, because even after everything that had happened during the past year, he still found himself watching Ian the way people watched something bright moving across a room.

Fatherhood had changed him in small ways that were impossible to describe, because the same guy who once started fights without thinking now crossed the yard balancing a tray of food while scanning the grass for hazards that might threaten their daughter.

Ian looked up and caught Mickey staring.

He smiled.

“Everything good?” Ian asked while placing the tray on the table.

“Yeah.”

The redhead stepped closer and kissed the top of her head.

“She looks happy.”

Mandy watched the two of them for a moment and shook her head, “You guys are ridiculous.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey answered automatically.

Across the yard, Franny ran past holding a paper lion while Liam chased her, yelling something about cake. Near the table, Kev knocked over a stack of plates, which caused V to smack his arm while telling him to stop touching things.

The chaos sat strangely in Mickey’s chest, because a year ago he hadn't known this life existed.

Actually, he had never allowed himself to imagine something like this.

Growing up had taught him that anything good could be taken away without warning, but now he stood in the middle of a green garden, holding his daughter while the people he loved filled the garden around him.

Ceci slapped his shoulder.

“Baba.”

“Yeah,” he said while shifting her weight on his hip. “That’s me.”

The baby grabbed Mickey’s collar while Ian stepped closer and kissed Mickey’s cheek before saying, “Time to sing happy birthday.”

Mickey blinked.

“Already?”

“Yeah, come on.”

Ian pointed toward the table where the cake waited with one candle burning. Mickey adjusted Ceci so she could see it, and she stared at the small flame with enormous curiosity before turning toward the voices gathering around her.

The singing started unevenly, because Kev sang too loud and Carl rushed ahead of everyone, while Franny clapped her hands and Debbie tried to keep the rhythm together.

The song ended while Ceci stared at the candle and slapped Mickey’s chest like she expected another performance.

Ian leaned closer and said to her, “Blow it out.”

“She’s one.”

“So help her.”

Mickey leaned forward and guided her small hand closer before blowing gently.

The flame disappeared and applause filled the yard, making Ceci laugh.

For a second, Mickey looked around at the balloons and the people and the house behind them and the man beside him holding the cake, and he thought, nobody was taking this away.

Not now.

Not ever.

He looked down at the baby and, with his heart full, he said, “Happy birthday.”

Cecilia slapped the giraffe against his shoulder and babbled proudly while the garden filled with her loud laugh once more.