Lip Gallagher leaned against the porch railing of the Gallagher house, beer in hand, squinting across the street like he was trying to solve a puzzle he hadn't been given the pieces to yet. His worn hoodie was stained with grease from the shop, and his jaw worked slowly as he assessed the situation.

Fiona Gallagher didn't bother looking up. She balanced a grocery bag on her hip, the handles digging into her skin as she fished for her keys. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, loose strands escaping to frame her face. There was a weariness in her posture that had nothing to do with the weight of the groceries and everything to do with the weight of everything else.

The moving truck's engine cut off with a final wheeze. A moment of silence stretched through the street, thick with anticipation. Then the driver's door creaked open, and a figure stepped out.

{Y/N} walked around to the back of the truck, unhooked the latch, and pulled up the rolling door. Inside: a few cardboard boxes, some furniture wrapped in moving blankets, and—most notably—a sleek black Yamaha R6 strapped to a trailer, glinting like a dark jewel in the afternoon light.

Across the street, the Gallaghers' front door creaked open. Frank Gallagher shuffled out in his stained bathrobe, hair wild, eyes already gleaming with that particular light that usually meant he was calculating someone's worth in dollars and cents. He ambled down the porch steps, barefoot, utterly unbothered by his appearance.

Fiona finally turned, sparing {Y/N} one brief glance. He was hauling a box toward the house now, moving with the easy confidence of someone who'd done this before. New neighbors came and went all the time. Some lasted weeks. Most didn't even make it that long. They'd move in, realize the South Side wasn't some fixer-upper project they could gentrify with their big city ideas, and then they'd disappear, leaving behind nothing but empty promises and unpaid bills.