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Ian wasn’t snooping—at least, not on purpose. The whole thing started because Mickey had been in one of his moods. He was tearing through the closet, muttering under his breath about Ian’s ‘freakishly tall clothes’ taking up all the space, as he yanked out old shoeboxes and random piles of junk. Ian, sitting cross-legged on the bed and watching with mild amusement, knew better than to intervene. Mickey in a cleaning frenzy was a storm that didn’t need help.
“You know,” Ian began, smirking as Mickey shoved an ancient hoodie into a trash bag, “this might be easier if you just admitted we need a bigger place.”
Mickey shot him a look over his shoulder, his hair sticking up from where he’d been running his hands through it. “Yeah, sure, Red. Let’s just get a penthouse downtown while we’re at it.”
“I’m just saying—”
“You’re just saying shut up and help.” Mickey cut him off, shoving an old cardboard box into Ian’s lap.
Ian blinked at the box, its edges softened with age, a strip of duct tape holding the lid together. “What’s this?”
“Crap from when I was a kid,” Mickey muttered, turning back to the closet. “Just put it somewhere out of my damn way.”
Ian opened his mouth to say something smart, but Mickey was already wrestling with another bag of junk, muttering something about not being “your goddamn butler.” Shaking his head, Ian stood and carried the box out to the living room. He set it down by the couch, meaning to leave it there for later, but as he straightened up, his eyes caught the faint handwriting on the lid: “Mickey.”
The name was scrawled in a childish hand, the letters uneven, some scratched over like the writer had changed their mind halfway through. For a moment, Ian hesitated. He hadn’t meant to pry. But curiosity tugged at him, soft and persistent. Mickey never talked about his childhood unless he was making a dark joke about it. Ian had pieced together enough to know it wasn’t pretty, but beyond that, Mickey kept those years locked away, hidden behind his sharp grin and tougher-than-nails exterior.
So, with a glance toward the bedroom to make sure Mickey wasn’t looking, Ian knelt and tugged the tape free. The lid gave way easily, revealing a tangle of old, mismatched items inside.
The first thing Ian pulled out was a plastic action figure, its paint chipped, one arm missing. A small smile tugged at his lips. It was hard to picture Mickey as a kid, let alone one who played with toys. He set it aside and reached for the next item—a worn baseball, its surface scuffed, with faded scribbles that might’ve been a kid’s attempt at a signature. Beneath it were scraps of crumpled paper, drawings done in crayon, their lines thick and clumsy. Ian smoothed one out, holding it up to the light.
It was a stick-figure drawing of what looked like a house, with a big sun in the corner and a crooked rainbow stretching over the roof. In the yard were three figures—one small, one big, and one with arms outstretched like they were flying. Underneath, in the same uneven handwriting, was a single word: Home.
Ian’s chest tightened. He set the drawing down carefully, his fingers brushing over the edges as he pulled out the next item.
And that’s when he found it.
The letter was folded in half, yellowed at the edges, and tucked between a pair of ancient trading cards. Ian pulled it free, his heart already twisting as he unfolded it. The writing inside was messy, the pencil lines faint in places where the writer had pressed too hard and then erased.
“Dear Santa,” it read. “I don’t need toys or candy. I just want a place where I will be loved. Please. Mickey.”
The air left Ian’s lungs. He stared at the letter, the words sinking in slowly, like they were trying to carve themselves into his heart.
He could picture it too clearly—Mickey as a kid, small and scrappy, sitting down to write this letter. Maybe he’d been hopeful at first, thinking Santa could actually help. Maybe he’d felt stupid afterward, hiding the letter away in a box like it was some kind of secret. Ian could practically hear Mickey’s voice in his head, sharp and defensive: It’s dumb, okay? Forget about it.
Ian’s fingers tightened around the paper, the faint pressure grounding him as he stared at the words. He knew this was something Mickey would never want him to see—something he wouldn’t want anyone to see. But Ian couldn’t tear his eyes away. The letter was too raw, too vulnerable, a glimpse into a side of Mickey he kept hidden behind layers of sarcasm and grit.
He folded the letter carefully, tucking it back into the box as though it were something fragile. He didn’t need to read it again; the words were already etched into his memory. “A place where I will be loved.”
Letting out a slow breath, Ian sat back on his heels, dragging a hand through his hair. The heaviness in his chest lingered as the reality sank in. Mickey didn’t talk much about his past—he usually brushed it off with a sharp quip or changed the subject entirely—but the puzzle pieces Ian had gathered over time painted a bleak picture. Love wasn’t something Mickey had grown up knowing, let alone expecting.
And that thought was unbearable. Mickey deserved love. Ian believed that with every fiber of his being, even if Mickey struggled to believe it himself.
He glanced at the open box, his mind spinning with thoughts. Ian couldn’t rewrite the past or undo the hurt Mickey had endured, but he could do something now. Something to show him, even in a small way, that he was loved.
A slow grin tugged at the corner of his lips as an idea began to take shape. His gaze shifted to the Christmas tree in the corner of the room, the bare branches sparsely decorated with half-hearted strands of lights. It wasn’t enough—not for what Ian had in mind.
Pushing himself to his feet, he dusted his hands off on his jeans and headed for the bedroom. Mickey was still busy tearing through the closet, a string of colorful curses spilling out as he crammed more junk into a trash bag.
“Hey,” Ian called casually, leaning against the doorframe.
Mickey glanced over his shoulder, his hair sticking up in a way that made him look more boyish than usual. “What now?”
“Think you can handle the rest of this on your own?” Ian asked, already reaching for his coat draped over a chair.
Suspicion flickered across Mickey’s face, his brow furrowing. “Why? Where the hell are you going?”
Ian shrugged, pulling the coat on with an easy grin. “Gotta take care of something.”
Mickey rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Fine. Just don’t forget to pick up more garbage bags while you’re at it, Mr. Helpful.”
Chuckling, Ian leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to the top of Mickey’s head before he could swat him away. “Consider it done.”
Mickey scowled, but Ian caught the faintest twitch of his lips as he turned back to wrestle with another pile of clutter. Shaking his head, Ian grabbed his keys and headed out, his mind already racing with plans.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
Ian came back a couple of hours later, bags in hand, to find Mickey still buried in his closet, grumbling like a man possessed. The clutter, which should’ve been thinned out by now, had only grown. Ian knew Mickey was in one of those moods where nothing could be done to help, so he didn’t bother offering. He’d let the storm pass.
Mickey barely looked up when Ian walked in, but his voice cut through the air with suspicion. “What’s all this?”
Ian set the bags down with a casual flick of his wrist, unbothered by Mickey’s tone. “Just some stuff.”
He didn’t wait for Mickey to process it. Instead, he started pulling out garlands, lights, and simple ornaments—basic things that would add a little life to the apartment, give it some warmth.
Mickey’s gaze flicked from the chaos of the closet to Ian’s steady, purposeful movements. His eyebrows knit together. “You’re really decorating this place?”
The question was less of a comment and more of a challenge, laced with disbelief.
Ian shot him a glance over his shoulder, giving him a half-smile. “Yeah, well, you’ve been complaining about how much of a dump this place is.”
Mickey didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the growing pile of decorations, mouth set in a thin line. After a beat, he sighed dramatically, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to scrub away the irritation. “You’ve officially lost it, Gallagher.”
Ian didn’t take the bait. He simply continued hanging the lights with deliberate care, wrapping them along the windows. “It’s just Christmas,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Yeah, well, it’s not really my thing,” Mickey muttered, his arms crossed tightly as his eyes darted over the garlands and mini stockings now scattered across the room. His stance said he was still resisting, still unsure of what to make of this, but there was something else—an undeniable curiosity. Mickey didn’t say it, but he was watching.
Ian noticed, and he let the silence stretch, not pushing but not giving in either. He could feel Mickey hovering, just a few feet away now, still keeping his distance but not walking away. His arms were still crossed, his body stiff, but his eyes were flicking between Ian and the decorations, the little details he wasn’t ready to admit he was taking in.
Ian knew better than to call attention to it. He kept working, letting Mickey come to him in his own time.
Eventually, Ian pulled out a small sprig of mistletoe, its green leaves soft but striking against the dim light of the apartment. With a quiet grin, he dragged a chair from the kitchen and pushed it into the space between the living room and the kitchen. Standing on it, he carefully hung the mistletoe on the doorframe.
Mickey, unable to resist his curiosity for much longer, glanced over with a raised eyebrow. “What's that?”
Ian shook the mistletoe gently, the leaves rustling. “This?” he asked with a hint of amusement. “It’s mistletoe.”
Mickey squinted at it, his mouth twisting in mild confusion. “Looks like a bunch of useless branches.”
Ian couldn’t help but smile briefly at Mickey’s complete lack of recognition. He could tell Mickey had no idea what mistletoe was traditionally used for, which only made Ian's grin widen. “It’s for... well, it's for something special.”
Mickey raised an eyebrow, still eyeing it with suspicion. “Why’s it here?” he asked, not quite sure if he wanted to know the answer.
Ian stepped down from the chair and surveyed the mistletoe for a moment, his eyes lingering on the small green leaves. Then, his gaze shot over to Mickey, who still stood by the door, looking as confused as ever, arms crossed and keeping a careful distance. Ian couldn't help but grin at the other man's perplexed expression.
“C'mere,” Ian said, his voice carrying a playful edge. “I'll show you.”
Mickey approached slowly, his gaze still fixed on the mistletoe above, his posture a mixture of reluctance and curiosity. Ian leaned casually against the doorframe, watching with barely contained amusement as Mickey hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The usual confidence in Mickey’s movements was gone, replaced by something a little more vulnerable.
He raised an eyebrow, his eyes flicking from the mistletoe to Ian’s face, clearly trying to figure out if this was some kind of joke. Mickey crossed his arms, still standing a few feet away, though there was something in the way he looked at the mistletoe now, a mix of confusion and skepticism. “What, you trying to make me kiss you again?”
Ian’s grin widened, the teasing edge to his tone sharper. “Maybe,” he replied, his voice dropping a bit. “You stand under it, and that’s the deal.”
He said it so casually, as if it was just another regular thing, and that’s what threw Mickey off. It was a challenge—something to test his limits—and Mickey had no idea whether Ian was serious or just messing with him.
Mickey scoffed, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms tighter over his chest. He was trying to act indifferent, but Ian noticed the faint flush creeping up his neck. “You’re full of shit,” Mickey muttered, but there was something in his voice—something off. The usual sharpness wasn’t there, and the way his shoulders shifted told Ian everything he needed to know. Mickey was flustered, and that was exactly what Ian had been hoping for.
“I’m just saying,” Ian pressed, his voice quieter now, laced with something more sincere, “it’s a tradition.”
“Yeah, well, traditions don’t usually involve me looking like an idiot,” Mickey grumbled, but his words lacked their usual bite. Ian could see the heat of embarrassment staining Mickey’s cheeks, and it made his chest tighten. Mickey was better at hiding it than anyone Ian knew, but he wasn’t fooling him. Not this time.
Ian stepped forward a little, leaning in just enough that Mickey would feel the shift in the air. His voice dropped lower, becoming more intimate. “Only if you want it to,” he said softly, the teasing giving way to something genuine, something quiet and expectant. He held Mickey’s gaze, watching for the slightest sign that he would give in.
Mickey froze. His eyes flickered for a moment, hesitation flashing across his face. Ian could see the struggle in him, the way he was trying to act like he didn’t care, but Ian knew better. Mickey always cared—he just didn’t know how to show it. The walls Mickey built up were tough, but Ian had a way of slowly chipping away at them, piece by piece.
Finally, Mickey sighed, his breath a little heavy, and ran a hand through his hair, clearly defeated by his own discomfort. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, but there was no sharpness in his voice, only a quiet acceptance, and Ian knew he’d won. Mickey had let his guard down.
Ian smiled, his heart skipping a beat. He stepped closer, closing the distance between them, and for once, Mickey didn’t pull away. There was no mockery in his expression now—only a rare warmth. “You know I’m right,” Ian said, his voice barely a whisper, the air thick with unspoken words.
Mickey rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. Instead, there was something softer—a warmth that Ian could feel, even in the small space between them. Slowly, Mickey took a step forward, a reluctant but undeniable pull drawing him closer, his breath hitching slightly as the space between them closed.
Ian didn’t wait. He leaned in first, his lips brushing against Mickey’s with a softness that caught them both off guard. The kiss wasn’t rushed, not like the usual exchanges between them. It was slower, more deliberate—a quiet promise between them. When they finally pulled away, Mickey was breathing a little harder, his eyes darkened with something deeper than just frustration. The walls Mickey had so carefully built were slipping, bit by bit, and Ian could see it.
“You’re a pain in the ass,” Mickey murmured, his voice rough, but there was something else there now—something Ian didn’t miss. A fondness that was rare for Mickey, a side of him that only Ian seemed to get to see.
Ian smirked, a soft laugh escaping his lips as he reached up, tracing his finger lightly along Mickey’s jaw. “Yeah, but you like it,” he teased, his voice low and affectionate.
Mickey didn’t respond immediately. Ian could see the battle happening behind Mickey’s eyes. The defensiveness, the reluctance, all fading into something else—something softer. Mickey wasn’t good at hiding it anymore, and for once, Ian didn’t need him to. He’d let Mickey be exactly who he was—no pretenses, no walls—just Mickey. And that was enough.
“I’m gonna go back to decorating,” Ian whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Mickey’s forehead before stepping behind him. His fingers brushed Mickey’s shoulder lightly as he moved, sending a spark of warmth through the space between them.
Mickey huffed, his expression quickly hardening as he tried to slip back into his tough-guy persona, but Ian could see right through it. His cheeks were flushed—just enough to betray him, a silent giveaway that he was still processing the kiss. His lips pressed into a tight line, and he crossed his arms over his chest, but it wasn’t as convincing as he hoped.
“Is it gonna keep hanging here?” Mickey asked, his voice betraying a touch of uncertainty. The way he glanced up at the mistletoe said it all; he was trying to act like it didn’t matter, but it clearly had him tangled up inside.
Ian scoffed, the grin never leaving his face. “Not a bad excuse to kiss you whenever I feel like it,” he said with a teasing smirk, his eyes bright with mischief. The air between them crackled with unspoken challenges, but Ian knew Mickey wasn’t quite as unaffected as he tried to seem.
Mickey shot him a sidelong glance, his mouth twisting as he fought the urge to smile. “Fucking sap,” he muttered, though it didn’t carry the same bite as before. His eyes were softer now, the walls still there, but with a crack in them.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
As the evening approached, the apartment slowly transformed from its usual cluttered, lived-in state into something that felt a bit warmer, a bit more alive. Ian worked steadily, stringing lights along the windowsills, hanging garlands from the door frames, and even arranging a small pile of mismatched ornaments on the coffee table. It wasn’t anything fancy, just simple touches that made the space feel like something out of a holiday card—something that felt intentionally put together, not just thrown together.
Mickey hadn’t said much since their moment by the mistletoe, and Ian hadn’t pushed it. He knew better than to rush Mickey’s process. He was still wrestling with whatever the kiss had stirred up, but Ian could see the subtle shifts. The way Mickey’s eyes lingered a little longer when they crossed paths in the apartment. The way his shoulders relaxed slightly when Ian talked about the decorations, even though he still tried to act like it didn’t matter.
It wasn’t much, but it was progress.
By the time Ian finished, the apartment had a cozy, festive glow. The tree, small and sparse as it was, sparkled with the light from the strings of bulbs. The faint scent of pine, mixed with the faint sweetness of cinnamon, drifted through the air, and for the first time in weeks, the place didn’t feel like a temporary landing spot. It felt like home.
Ian stepped back, surveying his work with a satisfied smile. The apartment felt... warmer. More inviting. He wasn’t sure what Mickey would think, but he hoped, at least a little, that it would make him feel something different.
He heard the sound of Mickey’s footsteps from the bedroom before the door creaked open, Mickey stepping into the living room, arms still crossed, his usual scowl in place. But when his gaze swept over the room, there was something softer about his expression. Something... surprised.
“You did all this?” Mickey asked, his voice a little less biting than usual.
Ian gave a casual shrug, leaning against the back of the couch. “Yeah. Thought it might be nice, you know? Get into the spirit of things.”
Mickey didn’t answer right away. He was looking around, his lips pressing into a thin line. His eyes softened, just a little, but Ian could tell he was trying to figure out what to make of it. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected Ian to go this far.
There was a long beat of silence, the flickering lights casting shadows across Mickey’s face, but Ian didn’t rush him. He could feel the tension in the air, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was more... like Mickey was processing something that had been hidden away for a long time.
Finally, Mickey huffed, his breath a little heavier than usual. “It’s... not bad, Red,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “Kinda looks like a Christmas card exploded in here.”
Ian chuckled, shrugging as though the comment didn’t mean much. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Mickey made a noise that was half-laugh, half-snort, clearly trying to downplay whatever softness was creeping up on him. He shifted his gaze to the small pile of gifts on the table—one of them, wrapped in simple red paper, caught his attention.
“What’s this?” Mickey asked, a flicker of curiosity in his voice.
Ian’s heart gave a small, nervous thump. He hadn’t really expected to give Mickey anything, but when he’d found himself out shopping earlier, picking up some last-minute things, he’d felt this sudden impulse to get something—a small token to show Mickey that even if he didn’t always show it, Ian cared. He’d chosen the gift without overthinking it, just something that might connect with Mickey.
“I, uh... It’s a gift,” Ian said, his voice light but his hands betraying his nerves as he picked it up and handed it to Mickey. “It’s not much, but... I thought you might like it.”
Mickey took the package from him with a raised eyebrow, his fingers brushing lightly against Ian’s. There was a brief, quiet moment as their hands lingered, a shift in the space between them, before Mickey ripped into the wrapping with an almost mechanical force.
Inside, there were two matching silver necklaces. Mickey immediately realized they were meant for both of them.
Ian waited for some kind of reaction, but when he saw Mickey’s gentle smile falter, his lips curling into a subtle frown and his lower lip trembling slightly, Ian’s excitement quickly shifted into worry.
“Christ, I fucked up, didn’t I?” Ian blurted, assuming Mickey disliked the gift, thinking it was too childish or something Mickey wouldn’t want to wear. “I can return it, buy something else if you don’t like it. I just thought—”
“You’re fucking cheesy,” Mickey interrupted with a quiet scoff, but his voice, softer than usual, caught Ian off guard. “Why did you buy it?”
Ian chewed on his lip, taking a step closer. “Well... Because you’re my boyfriend, and I think you deserve it.”
Mickey hesitated, lifting his chin, and Ian froze when he saw something that took him completely by surprise. Mickey’s piercing blue eyes were glassy, a rare vulnerability flickering there, yet his tough exterior remained unchanged.
Ian couldn’t look away. “Mickey?” His voice came out soft, hesitant.
Mickey didn’t respond right away. He stood still, the necklaces clutched tightly in his hands like he was holding onto something precious. His face was a mix of confusion and something far more fragile, something Ian wasn’t used to seeing—raw and unguarded.
“Why the hell would you do this for me?” Mickey asked, his voice thick, as if he was struggling to keep his composure.
Ian swallowed, his heart pounding in his chest, his hands suddenly clammy. “Because I want to,” he said, the words tumbling out without thought. “Because I care about you, Mickey. I care about us... and I don’t know how else to show it.”
Mickey’s breath caught in his throat, and Ian could see his chest rising and falling faster, like the weight of Ian’s words was hitting him in ways he hadn’t expected. Mickey stared at him for what felt like an eternity, as if weighing the sincerity behind his words, measuring the significance of the gesture. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter now, but no less sharp.
“You’re so fucking stupid.”
Ian’s stomach dropped, the familiar fear of having messed up settling in. But before he could say anything, Mickey pulled one of the necklaces from the box and held it out toward Ian. The silver chain shimmered under the soft light, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. Ian’s breath caught in his throat.
“Put it on,” Mickey said, his voice hoarse, but there was no harshness in it this time. It was almost... gentle.
Ian blinked, his fingers trembling as he reached for the necklace. “You... want me to wear it?”
Mickey’s lips twitched, and this time, the faintest of smiles tugged at them. It wasn’t much, but it was real—soft, unguarded. “Yeah, I fucking do. I’m not some cold bastard, Red.”
The words felt like a crack in the walls Mickey had built up over time. Ian’s pulse quickened as he slipped the chain around his neck, the weight of it settling against his skin—a symbol of something deeper, something they were both still learning to navigate.
When Ian finished, he met Mickey’s eyes, still processing the shift in the air between them. “What about you?” he asked quietly, holding the second necklace between his fingers.
Mickey hesitated, just for a moment, and Ian saw his walls rise again—just a flicker, but it was there. Then, without another word, Mickey stepped closer, closing the distance between them, and Ian’s heart skipped a beat. Mickey lifted his chin, and their eyes locked, that same intense gaze holding Ian captive.
Mickey didn’t say anything, but his fingers brushed Ian’s as he took the necklace and slipped it over his head. The touch was fleeting, but it lingered in the space between them.
“You’re still a fucking idiot,” Mickey muttered, but his voice was soft, almost affectionate. “But... thanks.”
Ian’s heart fluttered, slow and steady, in the quiet of the room. Mickey’s words didn’t sting the way they usually did. Instead, they felt like something else—like a bridge, one they were both cautiously building, one step at a time.
Ian smiled, the corners of his lips pulling up gently. “I’m okay with that.”
After a few seconds, Mickey exhaled heavily, his gaze shifting to the floor as if the words were heavy in his chest. “I don’t have a gift for you,” he muttered, his voice thick with an awkward tension. “I didn’t think you’d want to do all this, and I guess I just…”
“It’s all right,” Ian reassured him, his voice gentle as he stepped closer. He pressed a warm hand to Mickey’s cheek, his thumb gently rubbing against the soft skin. “My gift is you being here.”
Mickey’s shoulders relaxed, the tension in his posture slowly melting away. Without saying a word, he leaned forward and pressed his head against Ian’s chest, a deep sigh escaping his lips. The weight of exhaustion seemed to finally catch up with him, and he let it out in a soft, grateful breath. “Thanks for doing all of this,” Mickey murmured quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, but it carried more meaning than words could express.
Ian stood still for a moment, his hand still resting on Mickey’s cheek, as the quiet between them stretched out. He felt the steady rhythm of Mickey’s breath, the way it synced with his own. It was a feeling of closeness, one that spoke volumes without either of them having to say much more.
“Don’t mention it,” Ian replied softly, his voice steady and low, just for Mickey. He felt a warmth spread through him, a sense of contentment that had been absent for a long time. Mickey had always been hard to reach, a force of nature in his own right, but in moments like this, Ian saw a different side of him—a side that was raw, vulnerable, and real.
Mickey didn’t pull away. He stayed pressed against Ian’s chest, eyes closed, letting the quiet envelop them. For once, it wasn’t about words, or jokes, or the usual teasing. It was just the two of them, grounded in this fragile moment.
The silence lingered, comfortable and heavy in a way that only felt natural. Mickey shifted slightly, tilting his head up, his eyes searching Ian’s with something unspoken in them. There was a softness there now, one that Ian hadn’t seen in a long time, maybe never.
“You’re not gonna bail on me, are you?” Mickey asked, his voice low but with a hint of uncertainty that Ian had never expected.
Ian’s heart skipped a beat. He could see the worry in Mickey’s eyes, and something about it made him feel even more rooted in this moment. “Not a chance,” he said with a quiet certainty, a promise that meant more than just words. He reached out, cupping Mickey’s face with both hands, guiding him gently so their foreheads met. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.”
Mickey’s breath hitched, just barely, but Ian caught it. The faintest tremor passed through him, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand rested on Ian’s chest, pressing close.
“Good,” Mickey muttered, his voice barely audible, but the weight of his words was clear.
And in that moment, they both knew—despite everything, despite the fears and the uncertainty—their connection was something they weren’t ready to walk away from. Not now, not ever.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
After about thirty minutes, Ian was in the kitchen, humming softly as he prepared Christmas dinner for the two of them. Mickey sat on the couch, watching the outline of Ian’s figure through the doorway, his gaze lingering on him. The least he could do was offer to help, but Ian had firmly insisted that Mickey take a break—this dinner was going to be another one of his surprises.
Mickey didn’t argue. He just stayed where he was, lost in the warmth of the moment, until Ian’s phone buzzed loudly in the pocket of his jacket.
“Someone’s calling you, man.” Mickey called out, his voice cutting through the calm of the room.
Ian glanced back over his shoulder, offering a half-smile. “Check it. It’s probably my family.”
Mickey hesitated, not sure if he was ready for the flood of Christmas greetings from the Gallaghers, but curiosity got the best of him. He slid his hand into the pocket, expecting the phone, but instead, his fingers brushed against something crumpled.
He pulled out the scrunched paper, unfurling it with a quiet sigh. His eyes landed on the familiar, messy cursive—a handwriting he hadn’t seen in years. The words from when he was nine.
“So you found it,” Mickey muttered under his breath, his finger lightly tracing the edges of the paper, feeling a mix of disbelief and bitterness.
He wasn’t ready to open that door. The last thing he wanted was for Ian to find out about that part of his past—not today, not on Christmas. Not when everything felt different in a way he hadn’t anticipated.
Mickey quickly shoved the letter back into the pocket and grabbed Ian’s phone, pretending he hadn’t just unearthed something that had been buried for years.
If only little Mickey had known how lucky he was about to get, how the future would unfold in ways he never imagined.