The living room fell silent the second Y/n stepped through the door.
It smelled like stale beer, cheap pizza, and too many people in a small space.
Veronica
beaming, a hand on Y/n's shoulderEveryone, this is Y/n. They'll be staying with us for a while.
A kid with a buzzcut and a suspicious look on his face was sprawled on the couch. A girl with a baby balanced on her hip paused mid-bite of a pop-tart.
Fiona
from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a towelHey. Welcome.
Her eyes swept over Y/n's outfit—the cropped shirt, the ripped shorts, the fishnets, the combat boots. She didn't hide her assessment.
Carl
sitting up, eyes lighting up with genuine interestWhoa. You look cool as hell.
The room tensed. Fiona's jaw tightened.
Debbie
snortsCool? They look like they're about to rob a gas station.
Lip
from the armchair, a textbook open on his kneeGive 'em a break, Debs. They just walked in.
A redhead on the couch—Ian—had an arm slung around a wiry, angry-looking guy. Mickey Milkovich, if the scowl and leather jacket were anything to go by.
Mickey
nods once at Y/n, unreadable
Ian
craning his neck to look Y/n overYou the one that needs a bed?
Fiona
crossing her armsThat's the one.
She shot a look at Kevin and Veronica—the kind that said what were you thinking.
Carl
hopping off the couch, stepping closerSo. You smoke?
gestures to the cigarette tucked behind Y/n's earGot a spare?
