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IAN’S POV
I keep my head down. It’s the only rule I really care about here—don’t make waves, and maybe they’ll let you coast through your time without too much trouble. I’m in for six months, and I’m not about to make it worse by getting into some pointless fight with one of these kids who don’t care about anything.The cafeteria is the worst part of the day. The food’s horrible, and the air’s thick with tension like everyone’s just waiting for someone to make a move. I focus on my tray, poking at the unidentifiable lump of meat and mashed potatoes, trying not to let my eyes wander.“Hey, Red. You gonna eat that?”I look up, startled, and see him—Mickey Milkovich. I’ve heard the name. Of course I have. Everyone’s heard of Mickey. He's one of those kids everyone whispers about when they think nobody’s listening—reckless, dangerous, doesn’t give a shit about anything or anyone.He’s already halfway through grabbing the roll off my tray before I can even process it. It’s a shitty, stale thing, but it’s mine. He takes a bite, chewing slowly, eyes locked on me as if daring me to say something.I don’t.I just stare at him, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. He’s not huge, but there’s something about him—something that makes the space around him feel thick, like you could almost feel the electricity in the air. He’s got blue eyes, sharp features, and his mouth curls into a smirk that’s so familiar, it sends a little jolt through me.“You gonna eat it, or are you just gonna look at me like I’m some kind of freak?” Mickey asks, his voice low and casual, like he’s not the one stealing my dinner.I don’t know what to say to that. He seems too... easy with it, like this is a game. I shrug and go back to poking at the remains of my food.“Pussy,” Mickey mutters, but I can hear the amusement in his voice. He tosses the roll back onto my tray like he doesn’t give a shit about the crumbs falling onto the plastic.I ignore him, trying not to let my blood pressure rise. Maybe if I just stay quiet, he’ll lose interest.I should’ve known better.There’s a sudden crash, loud enough that it shakes the table, and before I can even react, I see Mickey in the middle of a fight. One punch, then another—he’s fast, no hesitation. The other kid doesn’t even see it coming. I can’t help but watch as Mickey lands hit after hit, no care for who’s around or who’s watching. It’s chaos, pure and simple.I stay still, like the rest of the room. We all know the drill: guards rush in, someone gets dragged off, and we go back to pretending nothing happened. But not before Mickey gets one last shot in—fist right to the kid’s face, knocking him down.The guards are on him in seconds, yanking his arms behind his back and dragging him away. Mickey doesn’t fight them. Instead, he just smirks through the blood dripping down his lip and glances over his shoulder, catching my eye for a split second.“Enjoy dinner, Red,” he says, the words almost lazy. Then he’s gone, swallowed up by the hallway.I stare after him, feeling something shift in my chest.I don’t know why, but I have a feeling this isn’t the last time I’ll see Mickey Milkovich.
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Same shit, different day.Juvie’s a joke. Always has been. Half the kids here act like they’re tough, the other half actually are, and none of it matters because we’re all stuck in the same shithole, eating the same garbage food, counting down the same endless days.Mickey learned a long time ago that you either run this place or you survive it. He’s not big enough to run it, but he sure as hell knows how to make people think twice about messing with him.That’s why, when he spots some new kid sitting at a table, head down like he’s trying to disappear, Mickey figures he might as well have some fun.The kid’s tall—really tall—but he doesn’t carry himself like someone who knows how to throw a punch. Not yet, anyway. The quiet ones are always the most interesting.Mickey slides up, plucks the dinner roll right off his tray. “You gonna eat that, Red?”The kid looks up, startled, and Mickey finally gets a good look at him. Pale skin, messy red hair, green eyes that hold onto Mickey’s like he’s trying to figure something out.Mickey chews the roll slowly, waiting for a reaction. Nothing. The kid just watches him, like he doesn’t care enough to fight for it.“What, cat got your tongue?” Mickey asks, half hoping for a bite back.But Red just shrugs. “Didn’t want it anyway.”Mickey snorts. “Bullshit. You’re just scared of me.”Still no reaction. Just a flicker of something in those green eyes before Red looks back down at his tray. Boring. Maybe this one’s not worth the effort.Then, right on cue, some dumbass down the table knocks over someone’s tray, and it turns into a full-blown fight. It happens fast, and Mickey, never one to waste an opportunity, is already in the middle of it.One punch, then another—quick, sharp, the kind that land solid and leave bruises. He’s not even sure why he’s fighting, but that’s not the point. The point is to remind everyone who they’re dealing with.The guards are on him before he can throw another punch, arms wrenched behind his back as they haul him toward solitary.Mickey doesn’t struggle, just spits blood onto the floor and glances over his shoulder. Red’s still watching him, eyes locked on like he’s seeing something no one else does.Mickey smirks, lets the words drip out lazy and amused. “Enjoy dinner, Red.”Then he’s gone.
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The Milkovich house looks like shit. It always has.Peeling paint, broken porch steps, a busted-up car in the yard that hasn’t moved in years. It’s like time forgot about this place, left it to rot in the middle of Canaryville.I shouldn’t be here.I tell myself that as I stand in front of the door, fist hovering just short of knocking. It’s been years since juvie, years since I last saw Mickey Milkovich. But that doesn’t change the fact that I still think about him—too much, probably.Before I can talk myself out of it, the door swings open.And there he is.Mickey Milkovich. Older now, leaner, but still Mickey. Same sharp eyes, same crooked smirk that’s always one second away from turning into something mean.“What the fuck do you want, Gallagher?”I should’ve expected that.I shove my hands in my pockets. “Nice to see you too, Mick.”He snorts. “Yeah, right.” He glances past me like he’s checking for an audience, then steps onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind him. “You lost or somethin’?”I roll my eyes. “Just wanted to see you.”Mickey stiffens for half a second before covering it with a scoff. “Well, you seen me. Congrats. Now fuck off.”I should leave. That’s what he wants. But I don’t.Instead, I lean against the porch railing, watching him. “You ever think about juvie?”Mickey raises a brow. “What the hell kinda question is that?”I shrug. “Just wondering.”He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “No, I don’t sit around reminiscing about that shithole. You?”I don’t answer right away. I think about cafeteria tables, stolen fries, the way he smirked at me right before the guards dragged him away. I think about all the times since then that I wondered what happened to him.“Nah,” I say finally. “Not really.”Mickey studies me like he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he just says, “You wanna drink?”I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. But I follow him inside anyway.—————————————————————It’s a mistake. I know that before the night is even over.Being around Mickey is like standing too close to a fire—you feel the heat, but you tell yourself you won’t get burned.Except I do.Again and again.It starts as tension, unspoken but heavy in the air, like something waiting to snap. Then it turns into something else—something messy, something that makes my chest tighten and my skin buzz whenever he’s near.And Mickey? He feels it too. I know he does. But he won’t say it, won’t let himself want it.We meet up in secret. Late nights, stolen moments. It’s never enough.Not for me.Mickey keeps it all at arm’s length, like if he lets me too close, he’ll lose something he can’t get back. He refuses to call it what it is. Won’t even let me kiss him unless we’re already half-undressed.And it pisses me off.Because I want more.I want something real.So I push. Too hard. Too fast.And Mickey breaks.—————————————————————“I can’t do this, man.”His voice is sharp, final.I shake my head, stepping toward him. “Mickey—”“No, Ian.” His fists clench at his sides. “You don’t fucking get it. This ain’t—this can’t be a thing.”I feel like I’ve been punched. “Why not?”He laughs, but it’s hollow. “Because it’s not.”That’s not a fucking answer.I shake my head, chest tight. “You like me, Mickey. Just admit it.”Mickey’s jaw locks. He looks away. “Doesn’t fucking matter.”“Of course it matters.”He exhales hard through his nose, eyes dark. “Not to me.”The words hit harder than they should. Because I know he’s lying. But it doesn’t fucking matter.Mickey isn’t ready for this. Maybe he never will be.So I leave.And this time, I don’t look back.
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The last person Mickey expects to see on his front porch is Ian fucking Gallagher.At first, he thinks maybe he’s imagining it—some leftover punch to the head from earlier making him see shit. But no, Gallagher’s really standing there, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking like he belongs anywhere but here.Mickey doesn’t even bother with a greeting. “What the fuck do you want, Gallagher?”Ian smirks like he expected that. “Nice to see you too, Mick.”Mickey glances past him, checking to see if this is some kind of setup. Cops? Someone watching? But no, it’s just Ian, looking way too comfortable for someone standing on his porch.“You lost or somethin’?” Mickey asks.Ian shakes his head. “Just wanted to see you.”The words make Mickey’s stomach twist in a way he doesn’t like. He ignores it, scoffing instead. “Well, you seen me. Congrats. Now fuck off.”Ian doesn’t move.Mickey shifts, uncomfortable under the weight of Ian’s stare. “What?”Ian leans against the porch railing, studying him. “You ever think about juvie?”Mickey frowns. “What the hell kinda question is that?”Ian shrugs. “Just wondering.”Mickey snorts. “No, I don’t sit around reminiscing about that shithole. You?”There’s a pause.“No,” Ian says eventually. “Not really.”Liar.But Mickey doesn’t call him on it. Instead, he just jerks his chin toward the door. “You want a drink?”Ian hesitates for half a second, then follows him inside.—————————————————————It’s a mistake. Mickey knows it the second Ian steps into his house.Ian Gallagher doesn’t belong here. He’s got too much light in him, too much something that doesn’t mix with the Milkovich house. But Mickey doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t tell him to leave.Because despite everything, despite knowing this is a bad fucking idea—Mickey wants him here.And that’s the problem.It starts with a drink. Then another. Then Ian’s looking at him in that way he does, like he’s got Mickey all figured out. Like he knows exactly what’s going on in Mickey’s head.And Mickey hates it.Because Ian’s right.They end up in Mickey’s room, door shut, clothes half-off before either of them say a word. That’s how it has to be. No talking. No thinking. Just hands and mouths and heat.It’s fine like this. Safe.Until Ian fucks it all up.—————————————————————I can’t do this, man."The words come out sharp, final. They have to be.Ian shakes his head, stepping toward me. “Mickey—”“No, Ian.” My fists clench at my sides. “You don’t fucking get it. This ain’t—this can’t be a thing.”Ian’s face twists like I just hit him. “Why not?”I laugh, but it’s hollow. Forced. “Because it’s not.”It’s not an answer. Not really. And Ian knows it.He shakes his head, eyes burning into mine. “You like me, Mickey. Just admit it.”My jaw locks. I look away. “Doesn’t fucking matter.”“Of course it matters.”I exhale hard, forcing my voice to stay even. “Not to me.”It’s a lie. A shitty, obvious lie. But I need him to believe it. Because if he doesn’t, if he keeps pushing—I don’t know what the fuck I’ll do.For a second, Ian just stands there, staring at me. And then something shifts in his face.Like he’s done.Like he’s finally done.He steps back, nodding once like he’s made some decision I don’t get to be a part of. Then he turns and walks out the door.I don’t stop him.I don’t call him back.I just stand there, jaw clenched, hands shaking, pretending this is exactly what I wanted.Even though it feels a hell of a lot like losing.