isabelckl

[isabelckl]

Southside Carl ✶⋆.˚(6)

carl gallagher x new neighbor!reader

synopsis: moving to Southside Chicago wasn’t part of the plan, but it happened fast after your dad lost his job. What started as a boring summer turned into years of growing up alongside the Gallagher chaos, becoming best friends with Debbie—and something more complicated with Carl Gallagher.

genre: angst, slow burn, enemies (friends) to lovers, teen fic, coming of age, fluff

a/n: no proofread lol rush

Masterlist ♤

⤷ · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Days slipped by, heavy with everything unsaid until the silence became unbearable. One week before summer ended, you couldn’t take it anymore. You had to talk to him.

The breaking point came on a muggy night behind the school gym, at a makeshift party marking Southside’s idea of a summer send-off. Half-lit speakers crackled under the weight of cheap bass, beer cans littered the grass, and cigarette smoke drifted lazily into the thick August air.

Carl showed up late.

His arm was draped around Kayla like it belonged there. Like you had never mattered.

Your chest tightened.

You tried to laugh with Debbie, swaying half-heartedly near the fire pit. But then Kayla leaned in, her lips brushing Carl’s ear, her hands spread across his chest like they knew the place. And Carl—he didn’t move away.

Then, his eyes met yours.

Just for a second.

You looked away first.

You stumbled toward the alley behind the gym, craving air. It was quieter there—just the buzz of muffled music and the crunch of cracked pavement under your shoes. You wrapped your arms around yourself, blinking fast to clear the sting building behind your eyes.

That’s where he found you.

“Hey,” he said, like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t disappeared. Like you still meant something.

You didn’t answer.

He stepped closer, hands deep in his pockets. “You okay?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Why wouldn’t I be? Your girlfriend’s a real treat.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said quickly, his brow tightening.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Something flickered in his expression. “What’s your problem?”

You took a step forward, your voice sharp and steady. “My problem? You disappeared on me. No calls, no texts, ignored me just like that? Then you show up now like nothing happened?”

He blinked, caught off guard.

“I’ve been busy,” he muttered. “It’s summer.”

“Fuck that. You’ve been busy. With her. With everything but me. And don’t pretend you didn’t know what you were doing.” Your voice broke slightly. “Did you enjoy it? Watching me trail after you like some pathetic shadow?”

He scoffed. “You’re mad I’m hanging out with someone else?”

You held his stare, pulse hammering. He was waiting—for an admission, for you to say the thing you weren’t ready to give.

“Can't you understand? This isn’t about Kayla,” you said quietly. “It’s about us.”

You let out a shaky sigh, biting your lip to keep yourself from completely breaking down.

“Is this about what I said? About transferring?” your voice wavered. “Carl, it was just a thought. It won’t even—”

“No, it’s not. Okay?” he snapped, cutting you off before you could finish.

He sighed and looked away, pinching the bridge of his nose like the conversation was too much—like you were too much.

Watching him like that, so distant and closed off, chipped away at something inside you. Still, you kept your voice steady.

You looked at him like you were searching for someone who used to live in his body.

But all you saw was distance. A boy with the same face who no longer looked at you the same.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Why, Carl?”

He didn’t answer.

Your eyes burned. “Just tell me. Was it fun?” you asked, stepping forward. “Watching me fall apart while you ignored me? While you held her like—like that?”

You could feel the tremble in your hands, the way your voice kept catching. “I waited. I waited for you to come back. I told myself you were just going through something. That maybe I was overthinking things.”

You forced a laugh that sounded like it came from someone else. “I made excuses for you. God, I defended you.”

He blinked. Still not moving. Still not breaking.

So you did. You broke.

“I love you,” you whispered, finally saying it. “I fucking love you.”

The words tasted like blood in your mouth.

“I know I shouldn’t. I know you don’t want it. But I do. And it’s not new. It’s not just tonight, not just because you’ve been distant. It’s always been you.”

You were rambling now, unraveling right in front of him.

“I loved you when we were in seventh grade and you showed up outside my house with that dumb stolen bike you said was a ‘gift from fate.’ I loved you when you got suspended for fighting some kid who called me names in the hallway and didn’t even tell me why. I loved you in all the tiny, stupid ways you never noticed.”

Your voice grew louder—almost manic with hurt. “And maybe I never said it. Maybe I never had the guts to fucking ask. But don’t you dare stand there and act like you didn’t feel something too.”

All that came back to you was the sound of your own breathing. Ragged. Shallow. Desperate.

You stepped closer, voice shaking now. “Tell me it meant nothing. Look me in the eye and tell me that all those nights, all those moments, meant nothing to you.”

He finally looked at you.

But his eyes were glass. Cold. Afraid.

“You can’t... love me. Not like that,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

And with that, he turned, walking away without a second glance. Every step he took felt like an anchor dragging you further under. You stood frozen, your breath caught in your throat as he made his way to the side of the road.

The world around you was a blur—cars speeding by, the low hum of the city alive with energy, and the cool night air whipping your hair across your face. Everything felt far away. Far too far.

You watched him go, his figure growing smaller and smaller with each passing second, and you couldn’t bring yourself to move. The weight of his departure pressed against your chest, suffocating you.

The night stretched out before you, dark and endless, and you bit your lip, willing yourself to stop crying, to stop breaking down. But the tears kept coming, too strong to hold back. They blurred your vision, mixing with the sting of the cold breeze on your face.

What had gone wrong? What had changed?

You couldn’t figure it out. You couldn’t make sense of any of it. All you knew was that, in that moment, watching him walk away felt like the end of everything you ever wanted.

[isabelckl]

I've been sick for days and now I can't form a coherent sentence

[isabelckl]

happy birthday to my first baby, elijah montefalco!!! time na para magreread 🙏🏻🙏🏻😩

[isabelckl]

Southside Carl ✶⋆.˚ Interlude: Sixth Grade

carl gallagher x new neighbor!reader

synopsis: moving to Southside Chicago wasn’t part of the plan, but it happened fast after your dad lost his job. What started as a boring summer turned into years of growing up alongside the Gallagher chaos, becoming best friends with Debbie—and something more complicated with Carl Gallagher.

Masterlist ♤

A/N: Flashback to sixth grade. Carl stopped being the annoying kid you dreaded working with and started becoming someone you didn’t mind having around. Maybe even wanted around. (no proofread)

genre: angst, slow burn, enemies (friends) to lovers, teen fic, coming of age

⤷ · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ ·

Sixth grade was better than last school year. But it kind of actually felt louder, messier, full of everything you didn’t know how to name yet. In the middle of it all was Carl.

The hallway always felt chaotic. Kids pushing, yelling, shoving into lockers like it was part of the schedule. You used to walk alone, hugging your books to your chest, until one day Carl just started walking with you.

Carl walked beside you like it meant nothing. Like he didn’t used to chase you with dead squirrels in some time or trip you for fun back when your knees were always scraped. He just showed up, shrugged, and took your backpack from your shoulder like he’d done it a million times.

“You walk slow,” he mumbled. Then he threw your bag over his shoulder, hands jammed in his hoodie pocket, like this was normal now.

It wasn’t. But you let him.

And it kept happening. Some days he’d be there in the morning before homeroom, waiting near the school gate or leaning against your locker like he wasn’t waiting for you. He never asked questions. Never said anything personal. Sometimes he’d make fun of your shoes, or the way your name looked written on your notebook.

But then he started giving you stuff.

Small things. Dumb things.

A pink eraser shaped like a hamburger. A rusted army pin he said he found under a bench. A rock he swore looked like Abraham Lincoln if you squinted one eye and tilted your head. He’d toss them at your desk when no one was looking, or slide them across the lunch table without a word. You’d find little wrappers folded into origami animals in your locker, sometimes with your name scribbled on them in messy block letters.

Once, he gave you a half-used tube of strawberry lip balm.

“Stole it from my sister,” he said, flicking it toward you across the lunch table. “Smells like you’d like it.”

You raised your eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Carl shrugged. “Dunno. You just seem like someone who likes strawberries.”

You rolled your eyes, but you kept it. And in fact, you do like strawberries.

At lunch, he’d sit next to you sometimes. No conversation. Just eating. Bumping your elbow accidentally-on-purpose and stealing the pickles off your sandwich. You never asked why he sat there, and he never gave a reason. It just became part of your day.

There was a moment once—quiet and stupid, but it stuck. It was a Friday. Math class. Rain smeared the windows and made everything feel slower. The teacher was droning on about decimals, and your pencil broke. You reached for your sharpener, but it wasn’t in your bag.

Without saying anything, Carl leaned over and handed you his. You took it, brushed fingers for a second. He didn’t flinch. You didn’t either.

Then he whispered, “Your handwriting still sucks.”

“You’re one to talk.”

But he didn’t laugh like he used to. Just smiled, soft. Almost... shy. And turned back to his worksheet.

You never talked about the pool, yet.

It sat like a heavy stone between you—untouched, unspoken. But after that day, you remember he was almost different. Not gentler exactly—he was still Carl. Still got sent to the office for throwing a ketchup packet at a kid’s face. Still carved stuff into the desks.

But when someone called you a name in the hallway once, he didn’t hesitate.

You’d barely reacted before Carl was already on the kid, fists swinging, shouting something that didn’t even make sense. The fight lasted less than a minute before a teacher broke it up, dragging Carl away by the hood of his sweatshirt.

You stood there frozen, heart in your throat.

He came back later from the nurse’s office with a split lip and a smirk.

“Shoulda seen the other guy,” he said, then added, quieter, “Don’t let people talk to you like that.”

You didn’t thank him. He didn’t need it.

But that night, you found a crumpled napkin in your backpack. On it was a doodle of a tiny stick figure with spiky hair kicking another stick figure labeled “jerk.” Underneath, in messy all-caps: I GOT U BACK.

You kept it in your sock drawer for a while. You weren’t sure why.

It wasn’t friendship. Not really. But it wasn’t nothing either. Then you remember what he said and did last summer with you, during Debbie's birthday and everything, you can't help but feel a little giddy remembering it. But felt weird at the same time because this is Carl.

He didn’t tease you like he did other girls. Didn’t flirt, didn’t joke around in that loud, attention-grabbing way he usually did back in fifth grade. He just... existed around you. Close enough to feel, far enough to miss.

Sometimes, you caught him staring.

Not in a creepy way. Just watching. Quiet. Like he was trying to figure something out about you, or maybe about himself. And when you turned your head, when your eyes met his, he didn’t look away right away. He didn’t smirk or say something dumb.

He just looked at you like you were someone he saw differently now.

You never figured out what any of it meant. You were eleven. Words were hard.

But that year, you started walking home slower, hoping he’d catch up. You started bringing two juice boxes instead of one. And you started keeping the weird little things he gave you, piling them in a box under your bed like they meant something.

Maybe they did.

It was raining that day. The kind of rain that made the Southside smell like wet concrete. You were sitting on the curb outside school, waiting for Debbie, hugging your knees to your chest and trying not to let your binder get soaked. Your hoodie was already dripping.

Carl walked past, backpack slung low, hood up.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just glanced down at you, then kept walking.

You didn’t expect anything else.

But a second later, you heard him jog back.

“Hey,” he said, and when you looked up, he dropped something into your lap. A little plastic capsule. One of those vending machine toys you could get at the corner store for a quarter.

You popped it open.

Inside was a tiny rubber lizard—green, stretchy, and kind of ugly.

You blinked. “What...?”

Carl shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes flicking everywhere except your face. “Looks like the one that fell outta your binder. Thought you lost it or something.”

You hadn’t. You didn’t even own a rubber lizard.

But you didn’t say that.

Instead, you nodded. “Thanks.”

He scratched the back of his neck, like he was instantly regretting this whole interaction. “Yeah. Whatever.”

Then he turned and walked away again.

You looked down at the lizard in your hands, water dripping from your sleeves, and smiled like an idiot.

You kept that thing. Stuck it in the pencil pouch you brought to every class. You told yourself it was dumb—but it stayed with you anyway.

A few weeks later, you were sprawled on the Gallagher living room floor with Debbie, trying to help her in a science project. Lip was half-asleep on the couch. Fiona was at work. Liam was chewing on a crayon nearby. Ian somewhere you don't know.

Carl came in from outside, tracking mud on the floor as usual. He kicked off his shoes, walked past like he didn’t even see you, then suddenly doubled back.

“Hey,” he said, tossing a crumpled paper bag in your direction. “Found this by the train tracks. Figured you’d think it was cool.”

You opened it cautiously—inside was an old keychain. Faded red leather with a broken charm shaped like a heart. Worn, but kind of pretty in a weird, tragic way.

“Thanks,” you said, smiling.

Debbie didn’t miss a beat.

She leaned in and wiggled her eyebrows. “Awwww. Carl’s giving you trash now? That’s his love language.”

“Shut up,” Carl said, eyes narrowing.

You flushed, feeling awkward. “It’s not like that.”

Debbie smirked, flipping her braid over her shoulder. “Sure. That’s why he gave you that weird rock, and those shaped candy wrappers. My brother’s a regular Romeo.”

Carl threw a couch cushion at her. She ducked and kept giggling.

When you were leaving that day, Carl was sitting on the porch steps. He didn’t say much, just looked over when you passed.

“I didn’t give you that stuff ‘cause I like you or whatever,” he said, voice casual.

You shrugged. “Okay.”

He stared ahead. “Just thought you’d like it. That’s all.”

You nodded. “I do.”

That was it. He didn’t say anything else.

But when you got home, you slid that broken heart keychain into the box under your bed, right next to the rubber lizard and the napkin doodle.

You never told anyone—not even Debbie—but you started calling it your Carl Collection.

It snowed all night. A week before winter break.

By morning, Chicago looked like someone had dumped powdered sugar across the Southside—pretty in a way that didn’t match anything else around here. Pretty in a way you didn’t trust.

Your coat was too thin. Your gloves didn’t match. You had wrapped an old hoodie around your neck like a makeshift scarf, but the cold still cut through your sleeves and settled in your bones.

School dragged. No one focused. Teachers didn’t even bother giving out homework. Everything felt like static.

When the final bell rang, you stood outside the school gate, waiting for Debbie, who had once again gotten herself detention for “correcting” a sub’s grammar too many times. The wind kept sneaking down your collar, and you pulled the hoodie tighter around your throat.

Then you heard it—boots crunching behind you.

“Debbie’s still in there?” Carl’s voice.

You turned. “Yeah. Ten more minutes, probably.”

He adjusted the sleeves of his coat, then blew into his hands. “You freezing?”

“No,” you lied.

Carl didn’t answer. Just looked at you for a second. Then, without a word, he reached up, unlooped the scarf around his own neck, and stepped closer.

Your breath caught.

“What are you—?”

“Just shut up for a second,” he mumbled, looping the scarf over your head, careful and fast like he was trying not to think about it.

It was soft. Warm. Worn. It smelled faintly like his shampoo.

You looked at him, stunned. “What about you?”

“I don’t get cold,” he muttered, shoving his hands back in his pockets. “I’m built different.”

You snorted. “Right.”

He looked away, but his ears were turning red, and not just from the weather. “You can give it back later. Or not. I don’t care.”

“You sure?”

He shrugged. “You looked like a popsicle.”

You both stood in silence for a minute. Your breath clouded in front of you. His eyes didn’t meet yours.

And then—because the universe loves timing—Debbie walked out of the building and immediately narrowed her eyes.

“Is that Carl’s scarf?” she asked, pointing.

Your mouth opened, but she cut you off.

“Are you guys, like, married now or something?”

Carl groaned.

Debbie laughed so hard she slipped a little on the icy stairs. “He gave you his scarf! That’s like... middle school love language 101!”

You tried to hide your grin. Carl didn’t.

He just shoved her lightly on the shoulder and started walking.

“You coming or what?” he called over his shoulder, not even turning around.

You followed. The scarf stayed around your neck. You didn’t say thank you again. He didn’t ask for it back.

But when you got home that night, you folded it carefully and slid it under your pillow.

Just for safekeeping.

It always seemed to happen this way.

Another project. Another random partner draw. And, somehow, again—you got paired with Carl Gallagher.

You used to hate it. Like really hate it. Back in fourth and fifth grade, it felt like a punishment: being stuck with the loud kid who never took things seriously and always found a way to make fun of your handwriting or call your ideas “boring.” But now… now it was different.

He didn’t get on your nerves the same way. Maybe because he wasn’t trying to. Maybe because you were different too.

This time, the project was at your house. You had more materials—your mom’s old craft bin, scissors that still worked, glitter glue that hadn’t dried up. And maybe part of you wanted him to see your space. Just once.

Carl stood in the doorway of your room, looking around like he’d just walked into a museum of bubblegum dreams.

“Damn,” he said, mouth tugging into a grin. “Did Hello Kitty throw up in here or what?”

You rolled your eyes. “Just sit down.”

He plopped onto your carpet with a sigh, still grinning to himself as he looked around. You ignored him and started spreading the materials out on the floor, your back to him as you explained the steps.

He didn’t say much. Just watched.

And for some reason… that’s when it hit you.

A few months ago, you would’ve hated this. Being paired with him, being stuck in a room with him, the way he used to make everything feel like a joke. But now—now, you didn’t mind it. You wanted to work with him. You didn’t even care if he was paying attention (he was). You were just glad to sit here with him, like this.

The same feeling from Debbie’s last summer birthday flickered through your chest—the way you and Carl stayed up way too late, slouched on the living room floor, playing truth or dare, drew and wrote stupid things at each other and forgot—for a little while—that you were supposed to be annoyed by him.

And now, that same flutter was back.

You stared at the colored paper in your hands, your voice trailing off mid-sentence.

Am I starting to like him?

You didn’t say it out loud, but it echoed in your head like someone had screamed it.

Carl tilted his head. “Hey… you good?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him. Really looked.

He was closer than before, his arms resting on his knees. His smile had faded, replaced with something softer. His brows pulled together, like he was trying to figure you out. Like he knew something had shifted in the air between you.

And when he leaned in—just slightly—you felt your breath catch.

Your heart thudded hard against your ribs. Your eyes locked with his.

Then, his gaze flicked down—briefly—to your lips.

You froze. So did he.

The glitter glue sat forgotten between you. The room was too quiet. And suddenly, it felt like the world was balancing on the edge of something you didn’t understand yet.

You blinked, snapping back to reality. A sharp inhale cut through the silence.

“I—I mean, you know what to do, right?” you stammered, voice louder than it needed to be. “Let’s just… get this done.”

You looked away before he could say anything, picking up the scissors with a hand that wasn’t as steady as you wanted it to be.

Carl didn’t press it. He just gave a quiet hum and started working next to you.

But every so often, you caught him glancing your way.

And every time he did, your hands trembled just a little more.

[isabelckl]

The MOST dad thing joel miller has ever done is walk into his daughters room with the intent to fix some deep emotional hurt and been like ...wELL your guitar strings are shot imma fix them don't you worry see ya later and hustle out without saying another goddamn word

[isabelckl]

when you grew up as a lonely uncool girl it will never stop haunting you by the way. you will meet a cool person at a bar or the train station or at a friend's party and you can wear your most stylish outfit and striking eye makeup and you will swear that they can see through all of the facade and see the lonely terribly insecure teenage girl you used to be who desperately wanted to connect and you will swear that they know that there is like an insurmountable gap between you. this will happen forever

[isabelckl]

joel died 😭😭😭🙏🏻 fuckkkkkkkkk

[isabelckl]

Southside Carl ✶⋆.˚ Interlude: Summer Snapshots

carl gallagher x new neighbor!reader

synopsis: moving to Southside Chicago wasn’t part of the plan, but it happened fast after your dad lost his job. What started as a boring summer turned into years of growing up alongside the Gallagher chaos, becoming best friends with Debbie—and something more complicated with Carl Gallagher.

Masterlist ♤

A/N: Flashback to the summer before sixth grade, when things continued to shift after Carl saved you in the pool and you couldn’t stop questioning the way everything suddenly felt different.

genre: angst, slow burn, enemies (friends) to lovers, teen fic, coming of age

⤷ · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You were riding your bike back from the corner store, one hand clutching a crumpled receipt, the other balancing a bag of knockoff chips and a single red popsicle. Summer had turned the pavement to lava, and the Southside sun didn’t believe in mercy.

Then—snap.

Your chain slipped, and the bike bucked sideways. You landed hard on the curb, skinning your elbow and launching the Popsicle straight onto the street. It made a pathetic splop before oozing into a puddle.

You sat there, biting the inside of your cheek. Frustration burned hotter than the sun. Your elbow throbbed, your bike chain hung useless, and your snack was bleeding out onto the asphalt.

Of course he saw.

Carl Gallagher strolled up from nowhere, like he’d been summoned by your misery.

He didn’t laugh—not exactly. Just raised a brow like he was trying to decide if this was funny or sad.

“Don’t cry, princess.”

You looked up at him, scowling. “I’m not crying.”

“Didn’t say you were. Just figured I’d get ahead of it.”

He crouched beside your bike without waiting for permission. Carl had that annoying habit—acting like everything belonged to him, like the world would just move out of his way.

“I don't need your help,” you muttered.

“Not helping,” he said, already tugging the chain back into place. “Just bored.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t stop him. His fingers moved fast, smeared with grease and dirt like they’d never been clean a day in his life.

“Cherry Popsicle?” he asked, nodding at the red smear on the road.

You sighed. “Yeah.”

“Trash flavor.”

When the chain was back on, he stood and wiped his hands on his shirt like it didn’t matter.

You tested the pedals. Good as new.

Carl started to walk off, already half-distracted by something in the distance.

“Hey,” you called.

He turned.

You hesitated, “Thanks.”

He just smirked. That little half-grin he did when he thought he had you figured out.

“Try not to eat it next time,” he said. “You fall like a baby deer.”

You flipped him off.

He laughed.

And you hated—hated—that it made you want to smile.

A week after the pool incident, you scraped your knee racing some neighborhood kid down the block on a scooter with one busted wheel. You lost, obviously. And now you were sulking on the Gallagher’s porch steps, holding a melting bag of ice to your leg that Debbie had given you.

Carl was already out there, half-laying, half-sitting with his legs stretched out, chewing on a red licorice rope like it owed him money. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you with a raised eyebrow.

“What happened to you?” he finally asked.

You gave a lazy shrug. “Gravity.”

He snorted. “Looks like gravity won.”

You smirked. “Like you’d do any better.”

“I wouldn’t have eaten pavement.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Silence for a moment. The sky above was starting to turn that soft, late-summer blue, and you could hear someone’s radio playing two houses down.

Carl leaned back on his elbows, eyes squinting at nothing. “You cry about it?”

You looked at him sideways. “Do I look like I cried?”

He tilted his head like he was thinking about it. “Maybe a little.”

You threw a piece of ice at his face.

He dodged it, grinning, then said with a mouthful of licorice, “Don’t cry, princess.”

But it wasn’t mean when he said it. Not like it used to be. It was... something else now.

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t get up. You didn’t snap back. You just stayed there beside him, letting the quiet settle between you.

He handed you the other half of his licorice without looking at you. And without thinking, you took it. You bite into it, raising your eyebrows at him while he stares back, half-grinning.

The sun was starting to dip low, casting everything in that golden, syrupy kind of light. The kind that made even the Southside look like it was holding its breath. You were walking with Debbie, her voice running a mile a minute about some kid at daycare who tried to flush a plastic dinosaur down the toilet.

You were half-listening, half-watching how the light turned the cracks in the pavement orange. It smelled like hot concrete and someone grilling a few blocks away.

Then you heard them—shoes scuffing the sidewalk, a lazy kind of shuffle. You didn’t even have to turn around.

Carl.

He came up on your other side like he’d always been walking with you, like he belonged there. He didn’t say anything at first, just flicked a pebble ahead of him with the toe of his sneaker.

Debbie rolled her eyes. “Why are you here?”

Carl shrugged. “You’re boring. She’s funnier.” He jerked his head toward you, and you blinked.

Debbie narrowed her eyes at him, then turned to you. “Don’t believe anything he says. He still thinks dinosaurs are fake.”

“They are fake,” Carl said flatly, kicking another pebble. “It’s just big bones people glue together and pretend about.”

You snorted—couldn’t help it. Carl looked over, smug. “See? She gets it.”

You shook your head, trying to hide your smile. The three of you kept walking, and even though Carl kept bumping your shoulder every few steps and Debbie kept snapping at him to quit it, you didn’t mind. The air felt warm against your skin, the sky turning soft orange and pink above the rooftops.

At one point, Carl broke off to climb someone’s low fence just to walk along the top of it, arms out like he was balancing on a tightrope. He jumped down when you passed under a tree and pulled a small branch free, handing it to you like a weird little gift.

“Here,” he said. “You look like the type who keeps stuff like this.”

You blinked down at it. It was dumb. And kind of sweet. And very Carl.

“Don’t cry,” he added with a smirk. “It’s just a stick.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t throw it away.

When the sky darkened into purples and the streetlights blinked on, you realized you hadn’t noticed the time passing. Not really. The hours had just slipped by, quiet and simple.

You looked at the small branch Carl gave you and shook your head. Feeling weird.

Debbie’s birthday wasn’t anything huge—just pizza, a cake, and a few mismatched streamers Carl had hung up crooked on purpose. But it felt nice. Loud, a little messy, but nice. Like being tucked into the middle of something that didn’t expect you to be perfect.

That night, the Gallagher living room was scattered with blankets, empty soda cans, and the remnants of popcorn that Carl had mostly thrown instead of shared. The Monopoly board sat abandoned on the coffee table—half the fake money was missing, and Carl had stormed off after landing in jail for the third time.

“This game sucks,” he grumbled, sprawled upside down on the couch.

“You just suck at it,” you shot back, tossing a pillow at his face.

He caught it midair, smirking. “I vote truth or dare. Way more fun.”

Debbie perked up from where she was painting her nails. “Only if no one makes me eat gross stuff again.”

Carl’s grin widened. “No promises.”

So that’s what it turned into—truth or dare, but with Southside rules. No chicken-outs. No skips. The kind of game that always started harmless and ended in either tears, laughter, or someone threatening to jump out a window.

It started light. Debbie dared Carl to prank-call the corner store and ask if they sold bras for ferrets. He did it with zero shame, even added a fake accent. You were dared to walk around the backyard in Frank’s giant rain boots singing “Single Ladies” while holding a plastic sword. The three of you were already breathless with laughter ten minutes in.

Then it got a little messier.

Carl dared Debbie to drink an entire glass of orange juice mixed with pickle juice and hot sauce. She nearly puked and threatened to burn his shoes.

You dared Carl to try to do a handstand against the fridge—and he tried. Nearly knocked down a shelf and bruised his elbow, but he played it cool like he’d meant to fall.

And then came the questions.

Debbie leaned in, eyes narrowed with that mischievous little sister glint. “Alright. Truth: if you had to kiss someone in this room, who would it be?”

Carl threw a popcorn kernel at her. “I’m not answering that.”

“Chicken,” you teased, raising your brows.

He looked at you, then back at Debbie. “Fine. The couch.”

Debbie groaned. “Lame.”

You didn’t say anything, just laughed a little, but your heart was definitely moving faster than before. Not that you’d admit it.

When it was your turn and someone picked truth, Debbie didn’t even hesitate.

“Be honest. Who’s your first Southside crush?”

Your eyes flicked to Carl for a split second. He was picking at a thread in the couch cushion, like he wasn’t listening. But you could see his jaw twitch just slightly.

You rolled your eyes. “Easy. No one. Everyone here smells like gasoline and cigarettes.”

That made Debbie snort and fall sideways into a pillow. Carl didn’t look up, but you saw the smallest curve of a smile pull at the corner of his mouth.

He was lying flat on the floor now, legs propped up on the couch cushion, tossing a candy wrapper in the air and catching it again and again.

“Worst dare you ever got?” you asked, voice low.

He didn’t look at you. “This kid in third grade dared me to jump out of a moving ice cream truck.”

You blinked. “Did you do it?”

He glanced at you now, eyes half-lidded. “I got two stitches. But I got free ice cream for a week after that.”

You laughed. A real one. Soft and sudden.

And somewhere between the stupid dares and shared glances, the warmth of the night lingered. Not just from the blankets or the summer air sneaking through the window, but from something else.

The house eventually went still, the only sound the occasional snore or the creak of old floorboards.

You weren’t asleep, not yet. You turned over to face the couch, just as Carl did the same from the floor below.

In the dark, his voice came low, almost a whisper. “You really didn’t have a crush?”

You blinked. “I said what I said.”

He was quiet for a beat, then,

“Liar.”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t deny it, either.

The room was heavy with the kind of silence that only shows up when everyone else is asleep. Debbie had knocked out awhile ago, curled up in a pile of blankets on the floor, hugging a stuffed animal.

Carl let out a breath, eyes on the ceiling. “You remember that dude who tried to sell us ‘designer air’ in a ziplock bag?”

You blinked, then looked at him. “Oh my god—Gas Mask Gary?”

Carl cracked a grin. “He said it was imported from Beverly Hills.”

You tried to hold it in, but the memory hit too hard. A laugh escaped before you could catch it, and Carl lost it too, shaking with silent laughter. You both curled up into yourselves, hands over your mouths, trying not to wake anyone.

Just then, Fiona’s door creaked open down the hall—then shut again, slow and deliberate.

Your eyes widened. You threw a blanket over your head. Carl grabbed a cushion and shoved it into his face, the sound of his stifled laugh vibrating through the fabric.

For a moment, the room was a mess of muffled giggles and breathless silence, like being kids again sneaking cookies at midnight.

Carl stayed where he was on the floor, lying flat now, one arm folded under his head. You could hear the faint sound of a siren a few blocks away and the hum of a box fan rattling against the window.

He tilted his head toward you, eyes catching the glow from a streetlamp leaking through the curtains. “Truth again,” he said, voice low like he didn’t want to wake the house.

You looked at him from where you sat cross-legged on the couch, one hand resting on your knee. “You just asked one.”

He shrugged. “So?”

You sighed, smirking despite yourself. “Fine. Shoot.”

He didn’t smile this time. Just looked at you.

“Why do you let me hang around now?”

You paused.

That one caught you a little off guard. Maybe because you weren’t sure of the answer yourself. Or maybe because you’d thought he already knew.

“I don’t know,” you said, after a moment. “You’re still annoying.”

“Yeah, but now you roll your eyes and stay. Before, you’d roll your eyes and walk away.”

You picked at the hem of your sleep shorts, pretending to think harder than you needed to. “I guess... you’re not always the worst.”

His lips twitched. “Wow. High praise.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was almost nice. Familiar. Like the sound of the Gallagher house settling around you had become part of your summer nights—squeaky floorboards, cars speeding down the block, someone’s baby crying in the distance.

“We should write something on our hands,” you said, holding up the marker with a mischievous glint.

Carl raised an eyebrow, already smirking. “Only if we write on each other.”

You rolled your eyes, catching the way his smirk tugged higher. “Of course you’d say that.”

He grabbed the flashlight and ducked under a white blanket, flipping it on so it cast a warm, secretive glow inside. “C’mon,” he said, peeking out. “This is a sacred art ritual. Can’t do it out in the open.”

With a dramatic sigh, you crawled under after him, settling beside him on the pillow-strewn floor. The air under the blanket was warmer, filled with that weird mix of detergent, old carpet, and him.

“Alright, go,” you said, offering your wrist. “But make it cool or I swear—”

“You gotta close your eyes. For suspense,” he said, trying to sound serious but already grinning.

“Lame.”

“This is your idea,” he said, nudging your knee with his. “Just close your eyes.”

You huffed. “Fine,” you muttered, biting your lip as you felt the cold tip of the Sharpie touch your skin. His hand cupped yours to steady it, and something about that small, quiet contact made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t expecting.

“Done,” Carl whispered, clearly trying not to burst out laughing.

You opened your eyes and immediately scowled. “Carl!” you half-whispered, half-laughed.

He’d drawn a penis on your wrist. The most ridiculous, lopsided cartoon one imaginable.

Carl threw his arm over his mouth, his body shaking as he tried to hold back the laughter. You glared at him, though you were already breaking too.

“You’re disgusting.”

“You’re welcome.”

You grabbed the sharpie from him and shoved him back onto the cushions, straddling his legs as you popped the cap off. “Your turn.”

Carl didn’t even flinch. Just looked up at you, totally still, his eyes never leaving your face.

You leaned in and started drawing, the sharpie gliding smoothly over his forehead, across his cheek, down the bridge of his nose. You were barely holding it together, lips pressed tight to keep from laughing.

He didn’t ask questions. Just watched you, silent and curious.

When you were done, you sat back on your heels and smirked. “Perfect.”

Carl grinned. “What is it?”

“You’ll see in the morning.”

And scrawled across his forehead, in bold black ink:

"Kisses girls and cries about it."

With a crooked little heart for good measure.

You both sat under the blanket, the flashlight between you casting shadows across your faces. You couldn’t help but laugh—at your wrist, at his forehead, at how stupid and funny it all was.

Carl glanced at your wrist again, cracking up. “It looks even worse in the light,” he wheezed.

You doubled over laughing, holding your stomach, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. “Yours is art,” you said, gasping.

But then—he stopped laughing.

Just like that.

You noticed the shift before you even looked up, like the air had pulled still again. You turned your head to find him already watching you.

Your smile faded, slow and uncertain. “What?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept looking at you. Not serious, not teasing—just quiet. And something about the way his eyes softened, the way his smirk had slipped, made your heart thump once, low and loud in your chest. It wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t obvious—but at the back of your mind, there was a whisper:

If you leaned in, you might find something waiting for you.

Then Carl smirked, voice low and smooth. “Debbie’s next.”

Just like that, the moment blinked away like it never happened.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, rolling your eyes. “She’s gonna kill you.”

He grinned, leaning back like he wasn’t just staring straight through you a second ago. “Worth it.”

“I could’ve just gone to sleep,” he said after a while, like it just occurred to him.

“You still can,” you offered, even though you didn’t want him to.

But he shook his head. “Nah. Not tired.”

You looked down at Debbie, snoring lightly in her blanket burrito. “She’ll be pissed when she sees her face in the mirror.”

Carl smirked. “She’ll blame you.”

“She'll blame you.” You smirked back.

A beat passed. Then Carl pushed himself up off the floor and joined you on the couch, settling beside you, knees brushing. He leaned his head back against the cushion and sighed.

You didn’t move.

He handed you the last fruit roll-up from the stash you found earlier, unwrapping one for himself. You bit into it, raising your eyebrows at him as he stared back, half-smirking like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

“Truth,” you said, licking sugar from your thumb.

He glanced at you. “Alright.”

“Have you ever had a crush on someone?”

Carl groaned, throwing his head back. “Lame.”

“You picked the game,” you reminded him.

He hesitated just long enough to make your stomach flutter.

“Yeah,” he said finally.

You blinked. “Oh.”

He turned to look at you. “You gonna ask who?”

“Should I?”

He shrugged. “Probably not.”

Something in your chest did a weird flip, but you ignored it. He didn’t say anything else, just sat there, that stupid smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth again.

[isabelckl]

Southside Carl ✶⋆.˚ Masterlist : On going

carl gallagher x new neighbor!reader

synopsis: moving to Southside Chicago wasn’t part of the plan, but it happened fast after your dad lost his job. What started as a boring summer turned into years of growing up alongside the Gallagher chaos, becoming best friends with Debbie—and something more complicated with Carl Gallagher.

genre: angst, slow burn, enemies (friends) to lovers, teen fic, coming of age, fluff

♤ Southside Carl

♤ Southside Carl 2

♤ Southside Carl 3

♤ Southside Carl 4

♤ Southside Carl 5

♤ Southside Carl Interlude: Fifth Grade

♤ Southside Carl Interlude: Summer Snapshots

♤ Southside Carl Interlude: Sixth Grade

♤ Southside Carl 6

[isabelckl]

Southside Carl ✶⋆.˚ Interlude: Fifth Grade

carl gallagher x new neighbor!reader

synopsis: moving to Southside Chicago wasn’t part of the plan, but it happened fast after your dad lost his job. What started as a boring summer turned into years of growing up alongside the Gallagher chaos, becoming best friends with Debbie—and something more complicated with Carl Gallagher.

Masterlist ♤

A/N: This flashes back to fifth grade. messy, awkward time where things first started to shift.

genre: angst, slow burn, enemies (friends) to lovers, teen fic, coming of age

⤷ · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Detention wasn’t on your schedule. Not today. Not ever.

And yet here you were—elbows on the desk, cheek resting against your palm, doing your best not to make eye contact with the flickering fluorescent lights or the ticking clock that felt like it was mocking you with every second.

You weren’t even the one who did anything.

But none of that mattered to Mr. Dunlap. He walked into class, saw the stink bomb already rolling under the desk, and then looked right at you like it made perfect sense. Like you were finally showing your true colors.

Never mind that you were frozen in your seat, mid-sentence in your stupid group project, or that your lab partner—Carl Gallagher—was nowhere to be found when the stink hit the fan. All it took was your name being next to his on the project sheet.

You tried to explain. Told them it wasn’t you. That you didn’t even know where Carl was during the second half of class.

But Dunlap wasn’t having it. “You were responsible for the materials. The project was under your name. Take accountability.”

Accountability. Like you were supposed to babysit Carl and finish the assignment and dodge the social suicide of being the only one who actually cared about your grades.

So now you were here. In detention. With gum stuck to the underside of your desk, a cracked window that didn’t open all the way, and a teacher too checked out to even notice if you slipped out the back door.

You were halfway through your mental list of “reasons I should drop out and join the circus” when the classroom door creaked open.

And of course. Of course.

Carl Gallagher walked in like he was late to a party, hoodie slung halfway off his shoulder, that same smug look painted across his face like graffiti on a train.

Your jaw tightened.

He wasn’t on the detention list. You knew he wasn’t, because you checked—twice. He wasn’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t even his punishment. It was yours.

And yet, he slid right into the desk next to you like it was reserved.

“Seriously?” you hissed under your breath as he dropped into the seat.

He shrugged. “Heard you were in here.”

You stared at him.

“Decided to join.”

“You what?”

Carl grinned, leaning back like this was fun for him. “Figured if I’m the reason you got screwed, might as well suffer with you. Solidarity, y’know?”

You blinked at him. “You’re insane.”

He tipped his head. “You’re not denying it.”

You rolled your eyes and turned back toward the front, jaw clenched. This was peak Carl. Absolute disaster energy.

There was a beat of silence. Then a quiet flick.

You glanced down. He had slipped a folded piece of paper across your desk.

You hesitated, then opened it.

“Could’ve warned you I left the stink bomb in my hoodie pocket. Thought you saw me switch bags.”

You picked up your pen, scribbled under it.

“I was doing the worksheet. Like a normal human being. What part of this is funny to you?”

He wrote back.

“The part where you’re here and I get to bother you.”

“You’re literally the worst.”

“No, that guy in second period who eats his erasers is the worst. I’m like... top five, max.”

You bit your lip to keep from smiling. But he noticed. Of course he did.

Another note slid your way.

“You looked mad earlier. Like, actually mad.”

You scribbled.

“Because I was. I am.”

“Didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

You paused, rereading that line. It felt too direct. Too real.

When you looked up at him, he wasn’t smiling anymore.

Just watching you. Steady. Unblinking.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered.

He blinked. “Like what?”

“Like you didn’t just explode my afternoon and get me detention for something you did.”

Carl leaned in slightly, chin resting on his folded arms. “Didn’t think you’d actually get blamed.”

“Well, I did.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s messed up.”

You were about to snap back—sarcastic, sharp, something that would make him shut up—but then he added, quieter:

“I told Dunlap it was me. Said I’d left something in your bag. But he said it was too late. Already logged.”

You froze.

“…You did?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged again, casual, like it didn’t matter. “He said I could serve it anyway if I felt guilty.”

You stared at him, throat tightening with something you didn’t have a name for.

Carl Gallagher didn’t do guilt. He did chaos. He did wild stunts and dumb grins and running from responsibility like it owed him money.

But here he was. Serving detention next to you. Voluntarily.

“…That’s stupid,” you said finally. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He looked at you, a smirk ghosting across his lips.

“You think I wanna spend an hour with a bunch of mouth-breathers in the courtyard?”

You stared.

He grinned. “At least here I get to bother you and steal your snacks.”

You rolled your eyes again, but this time it came with a small, involuntary smile.

The school hallway was almost silent by the time detention ended—just the low buzz of flickering lights and the occasional shuffle of a janitor cart echoing in the distance.

You stepped out of the classroom, shoulders tense, backpack slung low and heavy on your spine. Your name was still scribbled on the detention sheet for something you didn’t even do—and even though Carl sat through it with you, he hadn’t looked even a little guilty.

He was waiting by the water fountain, messing with the spout, trying to spray it sideways like some bored kindergartener. When he saw you, he grinned like nothing happened.

“You're welcome,” he said, casually tossing a rubber band at your chest.

You stopped walking. “For what? Getting me detention?”

“For making it less boring,” he shrugged, falling into step beside you like it was natural. “Could’ve let you suffer alone.”

You rolled your eyes, too tired to argue. The day had been long, and your patience had been thin even before the teacher decided you were the one who planted the stink bomb during science experiment.

“What’s your problem, anyway?” you muttered, tugging your backpack strap tighter. “Do you just like dragging people into your chaos?”

He smirked. “Nah. Just you.”

You looked at him. He looked back. For once, he didn’t smirk wider. Just held your gaze for a beat too long, then turned and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“C’mon,” he said. “Take the shortcut.”

“That’s not the way to my house.”

“It’s still faster.”

“I literally live across the street from you.”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “We’ll get there together. Like neighbors.”

You hesitated, then sighed and started walking. But before you could even take five steps, Carl suddenly yanked your backpack strap from your shoulder.

“Hey!” you said, half-turning. “Give it back!”

“Nope.” He slung it over his own shoulder with ease, ignoring your glare. “You’re tired. And you looked like you were gonna tip over. I’m doing you a favor.”

“I didn’t ask for a favor.”

“You also didn’t ask for detention, and yet—here we are.”

You tried grabbing it back, but he twisted away and started walking faster.

“Carl,” you warned.

He looked over his shoulder. “What?”

“Give me my bag.”

He stopped, turned around, and raised his brows. “Say please.”

You stared at him, unamused.

He gave you the most smug, awful grin.

“Fine,” you muttered. “Carry it, then. But if you drop it, I’m putting gum in your hoodie.”

Carl beamed like you’d just declared your love.

“You’re so sweet to me.”

“Shut up.”

The shortcut was more of a back alley behind the strip of old garages, cutting between houses and popping out onto your block. You’d walked it before, but only in the daytime. Now, with the sky turning burnt orange and the streetlights flickering on, it felt a little different. Quieter.

Carl kicked a soda can down the path like a soccer ball. You watched it rattle forward, bounce off a fence, and roll into a puddle.

“You ever think about not being such a menace?” you asked after a while.

“All the time,” he said. “Doesn’t stick.”

You laughed. You didn’t mean to, but you did—and Carl glanced overl. Like he was surprised by you. Like you weren’t someone he could just poke fun at anymore.

“I didn’t even do anything,” you muttered. “And I still got detention.”

Carl didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled a bag of chips from his hoodie pocket and held it out to you.

You looked at him.

“What?”

“I’m not eating your alley pocket chips.”

“They’re hoodie chips. Relax.”

You snorted. But you took one.

He bumped your shoulder. “I didn’t mean for you to get caught. I swear.”

“You never mean it,” you said, licking salt from your fingers. “That’s the problem.”

“Yeah, well... You looked like you needed a break from being a goody-goody.”

You gave him a flat stare. He grinned again, boyish and sharp.

A few minutes passed. The sun dipped lower. Carl walked beside you, surprisingly quiet. Just chewing. Thinking. Then he said,

“You didn’t have to stay, you know. In detention.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You kinda did.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you kicked the can he’d been dribbling and watched it clatter down the alley.

“Why’d you come?” you asked. “You didn’t get caught. I was the only name on the list.”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Felt like it.”

You stopped walking.

He did too, slowly, like he realized you weren’t following.

“You got yourself in trouble,” you said, “on purpose.”

Carl looked back at you, turning his whole body.

“Maybe,” he said. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’ve got that look—like I’m some tragic raccoon or something.”

You huffed. “That’s specific.”

“Yeah, well,” he looked at you now, lips twitching, “I know your looks.”

The air was suddenly... different. Still.

He took a step forward, then adjusted your backpack higher on his shoulder like it was his all along.

“Anyway. You’re welcome.”

“Um I'm not exactly thankful.”

“For not letting you be alone, dummy.”

You wanted to say something back—something sharp, something clever—but nothing came. So you just walked beside him the rest of the way in silence.

And when you reached your block, the streetlights had blinked on. Reaching the corner where you usually split ways, Carl paused, then handed you your backpack without a word.

You stared at him. He scratched the back of his neck.

“Next time,” he said, avoiding your eyes, “just throw the stink bomb before the teacher walks in. Rookie mistake.”

You didn’t smile. But you didn’t stop him when he smirked and jogged off down the block, hoodie flapping behind him, already yelling something crude at a passing car.

And you stood there, for a second too long, wondering why your chest felt kind of warm.

Like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t so mad after all.

It was freezing in the classroom. The heating barely worked, and the windows let in more wind than they kept out. You sat curled into yourself, arms crossed tight, trying to take notes without letting your teeth chatter too loudly.

Across the room, Carl sat in his usual slouch—looking completely unaffected. Probably because he never followed the dress code and always wore that stupid hoodie with the sleeves chewed up and the words half faded.

During group work, the teacher made everyone switch partners. You ended up with some kid who kept talking about Minecraft and forgot his pencil. Carl got stuck with the girl who wore glitter eyeshadow and always called him “Gallagross.”

Halfway through the worksheet, your nose was running, your fingers numb. You sniffled and rubbed your hands together. Then, out of nowhere, something landed on your desk.

Carl’s hoodie.

You blinked.

“What,” you said flatly, looking up at him.

He didn’t look at you. Just muttered, “You’re shaking. You’re annoying when you’re cold.”

You stared.

“Take it or don’t,” he added, already walking back to his seat.

It smelled like smoke and bubble gum, but you tugged it on anyway. It was warm. Way too big, but warm.

You didn’t say thank you.

But that was the first time you stopped wishing he’d disappear entirely.

The final bell rang. Chairs scraped back. Everyone shoved notebooks into bags and made a run for it.

Carl was out the door before the teacher even finished their last sentence. Typical.

You moved slower, mostly because your bones still felt like ice cubes. As you swung your bag over your shoulder, you noticed something on Carl’s chair.

A beat-up notebook.

The cover was half-ripped, corners bent, and someone—probably Carl himself—had drawn a stick figure getting eaten by a monster on the front. You grabbed it, sighing. He’d probably accuse you of stealing it tomorrow if you didn’t bring it back.

Outside, the sky had gone from gloomy to apocalyptic. Wind howled through the parking lot, and a second later, rain came hammering down like it had been waiting for the exact moment you stepped out.

You ducked under the stairwell ledge out front, shaking water from your sleeves. The jacket—his jacket—was still wrapped around you.

A few seconds later, Carl appeared, hoodie-less, dripping wet.

“Nice,” he said dryly, shaking his head like a dog. “You jinxed it.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He flopped onto the bottom step, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his chin there. You stayed at the top, hugging your bag.

The rain came down harder.

You tried not to feel bad about the jacket. Really, you did. It was his fault for giving it to you. And besides, it wasn’t like he didn’t make your life hell on a weekly basis. If anything, this was interest.

Still, when he sneezed into his sleeve, you winced.

You sat on the top step of the stairwell, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, knees tucked up to your chest. The rain hit the metal door a floor below like tiny pebbles, steady and annoying. You didn’t want to admit you were cold again. Especially not while wearing Carl Gallagher’s hoodie.

He was sitting a few steps down, elbows on his knees, head leaned back like he’d melt into the concrete. He hadn’t said anything since the “You jinxed it” comment. Just sat there, half-shivering and pretending he wasn’t.

Your eyes drifted to the notebook in your lap—the one he’d left behind in class like it meant nothing. The cover was scuffed and bent, and the edges were soft from being shoved into a backpack too many times. You flipped it open.

The first page was chaos.

Scribbles, mostly. Some doodles of knives. A very crude drawing of someone falling down stairs labeled “Mr. Reyes when he doesn’t give Carl extra time on tests.” A page with nothing but the word “ASSHOLE” in different fonts. Another with a list:

Debbie owes me 4 dollars

Get back at the chick for calling me Gallagross

Punch Ian (lovingly)

Ask that new girl if she’s scared of possums

You snorted.

“Are you seriously reading my stuff right now?” Carl said, not even looking up.

“It was just sitting there.”

“Yeah. 'Cause I forgot it. That’s not an invitation.”

You flipped another page, ignoring him. This one was… different.

There was a sketch of a dog—kind of boxy, kind of cute—with the name “Meatball” written in all caps underneath. The dog had a speech bubble that said “Screw school.” You almost smiled.

Another page had a drawing of a fridge with a lock on it and the words “REAL FOOD” scrawled across the door. Below that, there was a weird list:

A house with no yelling

A TV that works

Shoes that match

A dog (Meatball)

Some girl to shut up for five seconds maybe

You paused.

Carl finally turned his head. “That’s, like… old. From summer.”

You didn’t say anything. You just gently closed the notebook and placed it between you on the step.

“You’re annoying when you’re nosy,” he muttered.

“You’re annoying when you breathe,” you shot back.

He huffed a laugh but didn’t argue.

Before either of you could say something else, the door creaked open and a teacher poked her head in—Ms. Appleton, the sub who always wore weird earrings shaped like vegetables.

“Oh! You two are still here?” she blinked. “Did you miss your bus?”

You and Carl said absolutely nothing.

Ms. Appleton gave you both a look and tapped the wall. “Well, don’t stay too long or you’ll get locked in. Also—Carl, no graffiti this time.”

“I didn’t do that one,” Carl said, which probably meant he definitely did.

She left. The door slammed shut behind her.

Carl leaned back again with a sigh. “Great. Now she’s gonna tell Lip I’m ‘loitering.’”

You didn’t reply. You just stared at the rain and hugged your knees tighter.

It was still raining when the last bell echoed faintly through the halls. You peeked out the doors, the hoodie pulled over your head like it could somehow transform into an umbrella.

“Great,” you muttered.

Carl stood behind you, hands shoved in his pockets. He looked just as thrilled about it as you did. His hair was already damp, little curls sticking to his forehead.

You glanced sideways. “No umbrella?”

He gave you a look like you’d just asked if he owned a yacht.

You both stood there for a second, watching the rain soak the cracked pavement and flood the corners of the sidewalk.

“Well,” you sighed, pulling the hoodie tighter, “guess I’ll just swim home.”

Carl snorted. “You’d drown in like two inches of water.”

“Says the kid who eats glue.”

“That was one time, and it was experimental.”

You shook your head and took a step out. Cold raindrops immediately slapped your face like nature itself had beef. You froze, turned around, and walked right back inside.

Carl grinned, smug. “Told you.”

“Oh, shut up,” you muttered, dripping.

He looked out again, then shrugged. “Wanna race to the bodega on the corner?”

“You’ll probably trip on purpose and pretend I pushed you.”

“No promises.”

But you were both too cold to wait any longer, so you did it—you ran for it. You didn’t even make it halfway before your shoes were soaked and Carl stepped in a puddle the size of a baby pool and screamed something like “I HATE CHICAGO” with all the passion of a war general.

You ducked under a tiny awning together, both panting, soaked, shivering, and looking like soggy raccoons.

Carl pushed his wet bangs out of his face. “You stole my hoodie and made me get hypothermia. You’re literally a villain.”

“You said take it!”

“Yeah, well, now I’m filing a complaint.”

You both stood there, not moving, rain pounding down around you like static.

And for one weird second, it felt... not awful.

He shook out his arms and said, “Wanna go halfsies on a bag of chips?”

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t even have money, do you?”

Carl grinned. “Nope. Thought you might.”

Typical.

You were still scowling at him when he suddenly turned and started walking down the street without a word. For a second, you just stood there, rain drizzling down your sleeves, unsure if you were supposed to follow. Then Carl glanced back, eyes softer now—almost like a dare, almost like an invitation.

“You coming?” he asked.

It’s cold, the air sharp and biting, but you find yourself trailing behind him anyway. He walks with purpose, like he’s got somewhere to be, but doesn’t say much. You’re a few steps behind, not quite catching up to him, your feet dragging through the wet streets. The rain has slowed, but the puddles have doubled in size.

He leads you down a familiar alley behind a run-down corner store. It’s the kind of alley you’d avoid, but Carl seems like he knows this place too well.

“Wait here,” he tells you as he ducks behind a dumpster, and for a second, you’re genuinely confused.

Before you can finish the thought, Carl’s back out, holding a cardboard box, and he’s looking way too pleased with himself. “Check this out.”

You blink. “What, like some secret stash?”

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “Sorta.”

You stare at the box in his hands. When he pulls the top off, you see what’s inside: a collection of random, probably stolen, items. You try to hide your surprise as Carl pulls out a squashed action figure with a missing arm.

“This is what you do with your free time?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Carl shoots you a half-smile, almost shy for a second. “I like to think of it as… treasure hunting.”

He digs deeper into the box and pulls out a set of broken walkie-talkies and a slingshot with a couple of rocks stuffed inside. There’s also a scribbled-up notebook with crayon drawings that look suspiciously like stick figures of his siblings. He holds it out to you like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

“You think I’m gonna end up in jail, don’t you?”

The question’s so casual, it throws you off for a second. You blink, taken aback by how serious his tone suddenly is. “Uh… I don’t know. Why?”

He gives a little shrug, almost like he’s trying to act nonchalant. “I guess I just end up with stuff like this, and... well, I don’t know. It’s dumb.”

You glance at the random assortment of junk, and then at Carl. For a second, he seems a little less... Carl. A little more like a regular kid who’s just trying to keep everything together.

“It’s not dumb,” you say quietly, but Carl doesn’t look at you when you say it. He’s already stuffing the notebook back into the box, closing it up with one quick motion.

“Whatever. Let’s go to our house. You owe me pizza,” he adds, as if the moment never happened.

You hesitated, but only for a beat. Showing up to your place soaked to the bone wasn’t exactly appealing—your dad would ask questions you didn’t feel like answering. And honestly? The idea of drying off somewhere that wasn’t freezing cold didn’t sound half bad.

So when Carl jerked his head toward the corner and started walking, you fell into step beside him.

The walk back to Carl’s place is quick, your shoes splashing in the wet streets, but you can’t seem to shake off the weird feeling. Something about that moment with the junk box and his sudden vulnerability had you thinking, but Carl doesn’t give you much time to ponder.

When you get to the Gallagher house, you’re immediately hit with the familiar chaos. You stop just outside the door, looking at Carl. “So, uh, I’m just supposed to, what, walk in?”

He shoots you a grin that says it all. “Yep. Welcome to the circus.”

You step inside, and it's like walking into an entirely different world. The living room is a mess of toys, broken furniture, and the faint smell of burnt food. Liam’s in the corner, sobbing quietly while clutching a stuffed animal. Fiona’s running around with her hair a mess, trying to cook dinner while answering a call, and Lip is passed out on the couch, textbook splayed across his chest like he’s been sleeping in the middle of a lecture.

Debbie, however, is the one who greets you first. “Well, look who decided to show up,” she says with a raised eyebrow, her hands full of what looks like a failed attempt at a craft project. “You need a towel or something?”

You nod, but before she can go grab you one, Carl’s already tossing you a ratty towel from a pile in the corner. “You’ll live.”

You take the towel, awkwardly drying your hair as Carl makes his way over to Liam, who’s still crying. You overhear Carl telling him, “I swear, if I catch you crying again, I’m taking your toys and throwing them out the window.”

Liam looks at Carl, sniffling, then slowly nods, wiping his eyes.

You can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Here you are, sitting in a house that could easily be the set of a sitcom, Carl Gallagher—wild, unpredictable Carl—acting like a weird mix of caretaker and troublemaker.

“Thanks for the towel,” you say, feeling a bit weird about it. He doesn’t respond, just leans against the wall, clearly not interested in a thank-you.

And then, in the middle of everything, you catch Carl looking at you for a moment. His eyes soften just a bit, but then he quickly looks away, like he didn’t want you to notice.

But you did.

[isabelckl]

frank singing baby by jb while trying to take the muslims to canada 😭😭😭 i don't know it was so funny to me

[isabelckl]

Southside Carl ✶⋆.˚ (5)

carl gallagher x new neighbor!reader

Masterlist ♤

synopsis: moving to Southside Chicago wasn’t part of the plan, but it happened fast after your dad lost his job. What started as a boring summer turned into years of growing up alongside the Gallagher chaos, becoming best friends with Debbie—and something more complicated with Carl Gallagher.

genre: angst, slow burn, enemies (friends) to lovers, teen fic, coming of age

⤷ · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Two days had passed and you weren’t really planning on going out. You weren’t feeling it. All you wanted was to stay in your room but then Debbie invited you to a barbecue and bonfire.

You weren’t planning to stay long. Just a drop-in. A polite wave, maybe a plate of food to go. But then V caught your arm before you could bolt and said, “You look like you need to sit for once.” So now, you’re here.

Sitting on the edge of a lawn chair, picking at your drink, while Carl sits across the yard on the back steps—legs stretched out, a beer bottle balanced between his knees, and Kayla leaning into his side like she lives there.

He hasn’t spoken in what feels like forever.

No “hey.” No smirks. No passing comments. Not even the sarcastic little remarks he used to throw your way just to get you riled up. It's not like it's new.. it's been two weeks.

Nothing.

And yet—his presence lingers. Heavy. Constant. Like a heat you can’t shake off.

You catch his eyes for a split second when you glance up. It’s always a split second. He’s always looking when he thinks you’re not.

But then Kayla says something, and he laughs—low and lazy—and it’s almost worse than being ignored.

You excuse yourself to the kitchen. Something about napkins. A breath.

The screen door creaks open a moment later. You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him. You can feel it—like your lungs suddenly forget how to do their job.

Carl walks past you. Open the fridge. Grab a beer.

He stands on the opposite end of the kitchen, leaning against the counter. Close enough to touch, but miles away.

Still silent.

Still cold.

You pretend to be busy stacking solo cups. Your hand trembles when one slips. He doesn’t move to help.

You glance sideways, like you didn’t mean to.

He’s already watching.

But the moment your eyes meet, he looks away. Sharp and sudden. Like he can’t bear to look at you for too long without giving something away.

He opens the back door again and disappears before you can say anything.

Not that you would. You don’t even know what you’d say anymore.

You stay in the kitchen a minute longer. Just long enough to miss him walking back to Kayla.

As the sun set and someone lit a bonfire in a rusted pit, people started sitting closer, the drinks kicking in, and the mood shifting. You ended up squished between Fiona and Debbie on the old couch dragged out from the house, your knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped loosely around them.

Carl was across the fire, sitting on the edge of a cooler, talking with Ian, occasionally smirking like they were reminiscing or sharing something stupid and funny. Kayla was nowhere to be seen.

You can't help watching them—him—through the flickering flames. His eyes catch the firelight every now and then, sharp and unreadable. How his foot bounced slightly, like he was either bored or trying not to look over. You hate that it’s been more than a week. That you’ve been counting the days since he last spoke to you like it meant nothing.

Between flickers of flame, you caught his eyes on you. Not long—never long—but enough. Just enough to burn. When Debbie leaned closer to tell you a story, he looked. When you tucked your hair behind your ear, he looked. When you laughed, he looked.

It’s all so quiet. But so loud.

You shift slightly, feeling the worn couch springs creak beneath you. Fiona gets up to grab another drink, leaving space and a colder breeze in her place.

Carl watches you again. This time, he doesn’t look away.

Your eyes meet across the fire.

And for a split second, it feels like it used to be—like there’s no space, no silence, no weight between you. You didn’t smile. You didn’t look away. You just stared back, as if maybe in the silence, something could be said.

A beat passed. Then another. You swear your heart tripped in your chest. But before anything could happen, Ian nudged him and Carl dropped his eyes, letting out a breathy laugh as he responded—tearing his gaze away like it didn’t just gut you. He leans in closer to his brother, chuckling, like you’re not there at all.

You blinked, looking down at the cup in your hands, fingers tightening around it.

He hadn’t spoken to you in a week. But he looked at you like he missed you.

Like he hated that he did.

And it was starting to hurt.

Across the fire, Carl shifts. Sets his bottle down with a quiet thud and gets up, murmuring something to Ian before disappearing toward the house again.

You watch the door shut behind him.

You try not to wonder if he left because he couldn’t stand the sight of you like this.

But it lingers.

That weight in your chest, the heat in your cheeks. That feeling that something’s broken, or maybe just unfinished.

And the worst part?

You don’t even know what you did. Or if you did anything at all.

You stayed there a few more minutes, but the noise around the fire began to blur into the background—laughter, clinking bottles, the occasional burst of music from inside. None of it could shake the heavy knot curling tighter in your stomach.

You set your cup down on the chair and stood up.

Debbie called after you, something like “You okay?” but you just gave her a small smile and a nod before slipping away through the side gate.

Your bike was leaning against the fence, right where you left it.

You swung your leg over and pushed off with a soft grunt, your wheels crunching the gravel as you rode off into the street. No destination. Just motion.

The cool wind kissed your cheeks as you pedaled, harder and faster, like maybe the ache wouldn’t catch up. The hum of the EL above echoed faintly through the streets. You passed glowing storefronts with windows that reflected orange-pink skies, and front yards where porch lights flickered one by one.

Somewhere, a dad called for his kid to come inside. The sound of a screen door creaked shut. Life, moving on like nothing was falling apart inside you.

You made your way toward the bay without even thinking.

The air turned saltier. Softer. The horizon stretched out wide ahead, painted in fading streaks of peach and lavender. You climbed off your bike and let it rest against the concrete barrier, then walked toward the edge, stepping up onto the wide slab overlooking the water.

The city shimmered in the distance, buildings blinking like stars that never slept.

You sat there, the cool breeze of the night wrapping around you, your hair tossing lightly in the wind as the soft colors of the sunset faded.

You breathed.

The ache didn’t leave. But it settled. Became quieter.

The water moved with a rhythm that didn’t ask anything of you. It just existed. It didn’t need answers. Didn’t demand you make sense of Carl’s silence. Or his stare. Or the way everything between you two used to be simple until it wasn’t.

You close your eyes for a second, listening to the waves gently slap the wall below, the occasional car passing behind you.

And you thought—

About how people can be right there, and still feel so far.

About how sometimes, the silence is louder than the shouting.

And how even though he hadn’t said a word to you in over weeks…

You still felt him everywhere.

Like a song stuck in your head.

Like a ghost.

Like a home you couldn’t quite find your way back to.

[isabelckl]

Southside Carl ✶⋆.˚(4)

carl gallagher x new neighbor!reader

Masterlist ♤

synopsis: moving to Southside Chicago wasn’t part of the plan, but it happened fast after your dad lost his job. What started as a boring summer turned into years of growing up alongside the Gallagher chaos, becoming best friends with Debbie—and something more complicated with Carl Gallagher.

genre: angst, slow burn, enemies (friends) to lovers, teen fic, coming of age

⤷ · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Summer was supposed to be easy—lazy afternoons, midnight walks, gas station snacks, the kind of aimless freedom that made the Southside feel a little lighter for once.

But it wasn’t.

Not when Carl started pulling away. Not when the whole summer passed without a real conversation.

You thought it would end the way it always did—warm and hazy, the two of you chasing fireflies, daring each other off rooftops, laughing until your sides hurt. But this time, something had shifted. He had.

You didn’t know why. And God, you tried to figure it out. You cornered him on the porch once, chased him down the block another day, desperate for some kind of explanation. But every time, he’d brush you off—vanish like your presence was too much to bear.

It stung. More than you let on. So eventually, you stopped trying. Told yourself he probably just needed space.

Because you and Carl had always had your rhythm. Best friends. Partners in crime. He was the one who could crack a joke when the world felt unbearable, the one who knew when to talk and when to sit beside you in silence, hearts beating in sync.

Then came Kayla.

With her loud laugh, fake lashes, short skirts, and mile-long legs. She didn’t even go to your school—just some dropout who hung around older kids. But suddenly, she was everywhere. Sitting on the Gallagher porch. Draped across Carl’s handlebars. Laughing at everything he said. Wearing his hoodie—the same one you used to steal on cold nights and pretend you didn’t care when he asked for it back.

You didn’t say anything. What could you even say?

That you were jealous?

That you wished it was you clinging to him on that rusted old bike? That you missed the way he used to look at you like you were the only person that mattered?

No. That wasn’t the deal. You were best friends. That was the line. And you were supposed to stay behind it.

So you stayed quiet.

You smiled too tightly when Debbie teased him about his girl, rolled your eyes when he said he’d be busy that weekend. When he stopped texting first, stopped waiting outside your door, stopped walking you home like it was second nature—you told yourself it didn’t matter.

But it did.

And it stung more than you wanted to admit.

You tried not to let it show. Tried to laugh it off, shrug it away like you hadn’t noticed the distance. Like you hadn’t memorized the way his absence felt.

Late one night, you were curled up in bed, a half-read book resting in your hands, its words blurring into nothing. A flicker of movement outside your window pulled your gaze to the street.

There he was.

Carl.

Rolling his bike up the Gallagher driveway with Kayla on the back, her arms wrapped lazily around his waist, her laugh cutting through the quiet like glass. They looked like a picture—messy, chaotic, and something close to effortless.

You watched from behind the curtain, heart caught in your throat.

They went inside together, Carl holding the door open like it was instinct.

You felt it then—that pit deep in your stomach. That sinking kind of ache you couldn’t name. And you found yourself wondering, Are they serious?

As far as you knew, Carl had never really been with anyone. Girls either got scared off by his reckless, half-wild charm, or he shut them down before they even got close. He was never the type to get attached.

But maybe this time was different.

Maybe she was different.

And maybe that’s what scared you most.

That night, you stood in front of the mirror, staring at your reflection like it might give you answers. You couldn’t help but compare—Kayla was taller, tanned, with long blonde hair that always looked effortless, like it belonged in some music videos. You tried to mimic her look, digging out old makeup and dragging eyeliner across your lids, but it only ended in smudged lines and frustration.

You looked like a raccoon.

You scoffed. Of course.

The last time you wore eyeliner, Carl had laughed and called you that—a raccoon. You swore you'd never try again. And now here he was, dating a full-blown raccoon girl? The irony was almost funny.

All men do is lie, you thought bitterly, rolling your eyes at your reflection. You wiped the makeup off with the back of your hand, more annoyed than you wanted to admit.

It wasn’t about the eyeliner.

It was about him.

The next morning, you told yourself you were heading to the Gallaghers early because you wanted to invite Debbie to the local pool. That was the reason. Not Carl. Definitely not Carl.

But when you got there, Debbie was at the table, halfway through breakfast and spoon-feeding Liam. “I’ve got stuff to do today,” she said with a shrug, not even looking up.

You lingered anyway, trying to convince her—offering to help Liam, tossing out half-baked plans for snacks by the pool—but she was barely listening.

Then a voice chimed in from behind.

“Carl and I are going this morning. You can come with us if you want.”

You turned—and there she was.

Kayla.

You fought the flicker of surprise crawling up your face, keeping it as neutral as you could. Slowly, you looked back at Debbie, lowering your voice. “Did she… sleep here?”

Debbie didn’t answer. She just glanced at the couch, then back at her cereal.

You sighed. Somehow, that didn’t make you feel better.

Rolling your eyes, you turned to Kayla, forcing a tight smile. “No, thanks. I can go by myself.”

You didn’t wait for a response. You didn’t need one.

Carl came downstairs. You didn’t look up, focusing on your pancake, pretending Liam’s giggles were more interesting.

Later, you went to the pool alone. The sun was high, the water loud with splashes and laughter. Across the pool, Carl and Kayla sat close, talking—serious, quiet. He never talked to you like that. With you, it was always teasing, grins, chaos.

You sat at the edge, legs in the water, watching them. Your stomach twisted. You sighed, slipped into the pool, and swam, trying to shake the feeling.

After swimming for a while, you climbed out of the pool, wrapping a towel around yourself. As you adjusted it, a guy around your age approached.

"Hey, I know you. You're in my social studies class," he said.

You looked up, recognizing him. "Dylan, right?"

"Yep. So... are you free later?"

You hesitated. The idea of going out didn't really appeal to you. But then you thought of Carl and Kayla, always together, always having fun. Why should they have all the fun?

"I think so," you replied. "Why?"

"There's a party at Glenn's. You in?"

You paused, then nodded. "Sure. Later tonight?"

"Cool. See you there." He offered a fist for a dap, which you returned with a smile.

As he walked away, you glanced across the pool. Carl was on the other side, watching you intently while Kayla chatted animatedly beside him. You scoffed, turned your back, and left.

That night at the party, you chatted with Dylan for a bit before he drifted off into the crowd. Standing alone, you felt awkward, surrounded by familiar faces from school yet feeling out of place. Seeking some air, you stepped into the backyard, where the party had extended.

Yellow string lights hung like lazy fireflies above, casting a soft glow. Couples were making out in the shadows, and the sight made you feel even more out of place. You sat on a bench, sipping a beer, trying to ignore the discomfort settling in.

You hated this feeling—feeling obligated to sit with emotions you'd been trying to avoid.

Your eyes wandered back to the house.

There he was—Carl, standing at the back door, drink in hand, watching you. You locked eyes across the space, the quiet between you louder than the music. There was something in his stare—recognition, maybe. Or regret. You weren’t sure.

Then Dylan stepped into view, cutting off your line of sight.

"Hey, I've been looking for you," he said with a smile.

You nodded, gesturing toward the lights. "It's nice out here."

"Romantic, huh?" he replied, taking a seat beside you.

You and Dylan talked for the rest of the night. He was easy to be around—funny, thoughtful, and chill. There was a depth to him that made the conversation flow effortlessly, providing a welcome distraction from everything else.

The party had ended, and Dylan walked you home through the quiet streets. You walked side by side, the night broken by the occasional wail of sirens or the rumble of the El overhead.

It reminded you of Carl. He used to walk you home like this—shoulder brushing against yours, cracking jokes, throwing rocks at stop signs.

You frowned and scoffed quietly to yourself. Screw that prick.

“Hey…” Dylan said, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Huh?”

“Did you hear what I said?” he asked, looking at you curiously.

A wave of embarrassment hit you. He’d been talking, and you hadn’t heard a word—too busy spiraling back into thoughts of someone who didn’t deserve the space in your head.

“Sorry, I wasn’t listening,” you admitted with a small wince.

He smiled, unbothered. “It’s cool. It’s late anyway. You’re probably tired.”

“Yeah… a little,” you said as you reached your house. “But thank you—for tonight. I really enjoyed hanging out with you.”

“I’m glad,” he said, flashing a smile. “Get some rest.”

You smiled back, his energy still light even after the long night. After saying your goodbyes, you turned to head inside.

But then you noticed it—Carl’s bedroom window lit up across the street. The blinds were open, and there he was, standing in the glow of his room, looking straight at you.

You stared for a second, your chest tightening. He’d spent weeks pushing you away, pretending like you didn’t exist. And now that you weren’t chasing him anymore, he couldn’t stop watching?

You found yourself at the Gallaghers again the next night. Some sort of celebration—not that you knew exactly what for. At the Gallaghers’, even the smallest excuse was enough for a party.

The whole crew was there, Fiona, Lip, Debbie, Ian, V, Kevin and Carl. Even Frank, though he was already slurring and half-asleep on the stairs. The house buzzed with music, dancing, weed smoke, and laughter spilling through the rooms.

You stood in the kitchen with Liam, helping him with a plate of food. Despite everything, despite how distant Carl had been, this moment almost felt like things were normal again. He was on the couch with Lip, beer in hand, head tilted back in laughter. If this had been a few weeks ago, he would’ve been right here beside you.

You caught yourself staring. Lip must’ve noticed, because a moment later, he looked your way. You blinked and quickly turned, grabbing your drink and taking a long sip—grimacing at the bitter taste of the cheap beer.

Without a word, Lip appeared next to you and set a glass of juice on the counter.

“Don’t torture yourself,” he said, nodding at the beer. “Drink this instead.”

You took a sip. Way better. You gave a small nod of thanks.

Then, casually, Lip leaned against the counter. “You know, I never really got why you like him.”

You froze for a beat, then glanced over at Carl, who was now laughing at something Kevin said.

A sigh escaped you. “I feel like one of those girls who used to chase after you.”

Lip smirked. “Girls chased me?”

“Oh, please. You know I've seen them.” You rolled your eyes with a laugh, and he joined in.

But then his tone softened. “Seriously… you’re better than this. Whatever Carl’s deal is—he’s being an ass.”

You looked down, pressing your lips together before offering a small smile. “Maybe. But… I know him. He must have his reasons.”

Lip studied you for a second, then sighed and gently ruffled your hair. “Alright, kid. Just don’t let him drag you down.”

And with that, he was gone—back to Fiona, leaving you in the kitchen with Liam and the hum of a house that never really quieted down.

....

[isabelckl]

summer in shameless>>>

[isabelckl]

it's called Shameless therapy 😭😭🙏🏻🙏🏻

[isabelckl]

Southside Carl ✶⋆.˚ (3)

carl gallagher x new neighbor!reader

Masterlist ♤

synopsis: moving to Southside Chicago wasn’t part of the plan, but it happened fast after your dad lost his job. What started as a boring summer turned into years of growing up alongside the Gallagher chaos, becoming best friends with Debbie—and something more complicated with Carl Gallagher.

genre: angst, slow burn, enemies (friends) to lovers, teen fic, coming of age, fluff

⤷ · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The summer haze stretched on. You found yourself looking for him when you walked into class. Sometimes you'd study with Debbie and he’d just be... there, hovering around. He’d sit beside you on the porch when the nights got cool and the streets got quiet. You talked about nothing. About dumb teachers, or the kid at school who smelled like pickles. About how you hated the Southside, or how maybe it wasn’t all bad.

You started noticing little things too. Like how he always had bruises on his arms—not from fights, but from roughhousing with Liam or climbing where he wasn’t supposed to. How he always carried that one busted-up toy soldier in his pocket, the one from when he was a kid. Or how he’d go quiet whenever someone mentioned their dad.

And slowly, without even realizing it, Carl Gallagher became part of your story.

Not the good part. Not the bad part either.

Just... a part of it.

By the time seventh grade rolled around, the lines between you and the Gallaghers had all but disappeared.

You spent more time at their place than your own. Your parents stopped asking where you were going after dinner because they already knew the answer. Your sister had made her own group of friends and stopped tagging along. But you? You stayed. With Debbie. With Carl.

And Carl... Carl had changed.

Not completely—he was still reckless, still picked fights, still had the same dumb smirk—but something was different. He got taller, for one. His voice started to drop, though sometimes it still cracked in the middle of a sentence. He didn’t cause as much trouble at school anymore. He still did dumb shit, but it wasn’t just for fun. There was a purpose now, even if you didn’t always understand it.

He also started walking you home.

At first, he pretended like it was nothing. Said he just "happened" to be going the same way. But he kept doing it. After school. After hanging out at Debbie’s even though you just live across. After late nights at their house when Fiona kicked everyone out so she could crash in peace.

You didn’t talk much on those walks. Sometimes he kicked rocks. Sometimes you pointed out stupid stuff like a raccoon in the trash or someone yelling at a broken car stereo. But even in the silence, it felt... safe.

Late night after a hang out, after walking you to your porch, he paused before leaving.

“You, uh... You ever think about what you’d do if you didn’t live here?” he asked.

You blinked. “Here?”

He nodded, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Like... Southside. All of it.”

You looked at him for a long moment, then shrugged. “All the time.”

He nodded slowly, then turned and walked back down the sidewalk, not saying another word.

That night, you stared at your ceiling longer than usual.

And it just kept happening. These quiet moments. Little things. Like when he offered you his jacket when you were cold—even though it smelled like gasoline and old leather. Or when he punched a kid for saying something gross about you behind your back. Or how, during one of Debbie’s movie nights, he fell asleep on the floor and somehow ended up with his head on your leg—and you didn’t move.

Not for hours.

Still, you didn’t talk about it. Neither of you did. It was like some invisible line between friendship and something else that neither of you wanted to cross. Or maybe you both wanted to, but were too scared of what came next.

But it was there. In the glances. In the silence. In the way he’d sit a little closer than he needed to. In the way your heart beat faster when he did.

Seventh grade wasn’t just about growing up.

It was about growing toward something.

Something that felt a lot like love—but was still too messy, too young, and too real to name.

Summer before 8th grade was different.

It wasn’t about playing with sidewalk chalk or stealing candy from the gas station anymore. Things were changing. You were changing. But somehow, even through all the mess, Carl stayed right there next to you.

Somehow, Carl Gallagher had become your best friend.

It wasn’t planned. It just happened. One day you were arguing about who smelled worse after gym class, and the next, you were telling him about your mom’s breakdown in the kitchen at 2AM. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just listened.

Carl didn’t talk much about his stuff, but you learned to read him anyway. The way his jaw clenched when Frank stumbled past him in the living room. How he’d suddenly volunteer to go out when Fiona and Lip argued too loud. The way he checked on Liam before going to bed, even when he pretended like he didn’t care.

You started sleeping over more. At first, it was just in Debbie’s room, like always. But one night, the power went out, and you ended up crashing on the couch with Carl. You both pretended it was no big deal. You just threw a blanket over yourselves, your shoulders barely touching.

But you didn’t sleep much that night.

And neither did he.

Most days, you’d hang out behind the Alibi while he snuck beers from the back or helped Kev carry stuff. You tagged along when he went to do dumb side hustles for money—mowing lawns, selling fake cologne, once even trying to walk some lady’s insane poodle for $10.

“We’re a team now,” he said with a grin, tossing you a can of Coke after a long day. “Southside’s most chaotic duo.”

You rolled your eyes. “More like Southside’s most likely to end up on the news.”

He laughed, and it was the kind of laugh that felt good in your chest. The kind you didn’t get to hear from him much anymore.

One night, the two of you sat on the roof of the Gallaghers’ house, legs dangling over the edge, a bag of half-stale chips between you.

“You ever think about leaving?” you asked, not really expecting an answer.

He was quiet for a long time. Then: “Sometimes. But then I think... maybe I wouldn’t hate it as much if you were there.”

You turned your head. His face was blank, like he didn’t even realize what he said.

“Carl...”

He stood up suddenly, brushing chip crumbs off his pants. “You hungry? Let’s eat some pizza from the fridge.”

You didn’t push it. You never did. That’s just how Carl was. He cracked open sometimes, just a little, then closed back up before you could peek too far inside.

But that night, something stayed with you. The way he looked at you. The way the air felt heavier when you sat next to him.

You were best friends, yeah.

But sometimes, it felt like it was more.

Neither of you said it. Neither of you dared.

Not yet.

Still, the signs were there, if you knew where to look.

Like how his eyes always found you in a crowded room. He could be in the middle of a conversation, half-listening to Lip or messing around with Liam, but his gaze would flick toward you—just for a second, like he was making sure you were still there. Like you were his anchor.

Or how he'd go quiet when someone else made you laugh. Like that one time in the corner store, when the guy behind the counter—some college kid home for break—complimented your hair and asked for your name. You laughed, said it was nothing. Carl didn’t. He stared the guy down the entire time you were checking out, then walked out without waiting for you.

Later, when you caught up to him, he said nothing. Just shoved his hands deep in his pockets and kicked a bottle cap down the sidewalk.

“You okay?” you asked.

He didn’t look at you. “Do you like guys like that?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He shook his head, his voice low. “Forget it.”

“He's fucking old Carl, what's your problem.” You said, laughing a bit.

You didn’t push it.

But you wanted to.

God, you wanted to.

Another time, you were sitting at the park with a kid from your English class. He was harmless—funny, a little awkward. You talked about a project, shared a bag of chips, and laughed when he made a joke about your teacher’s weird neck tattoo.

Carl showed up out of nowhere.

Didn’t say hi. Didn’t even look at the other kid. He walked up, muttered something about Fiona needing help with groceries, and waited.

You left with him, even though you knew there were no groceries.

He didn’t say a word the whole walk back.

That night, he tossed rocks at your window until you cracked it open.

“You mad at me?” you asked.

He shook his head. “Nah.”

But when you came down to sit with him on the porch, his shoulder brushed yours. He didn’t move away.

There were moments like that all the time.

Like when you were cold and he threw his hoodie at you without asking. “It’s clean,” he muttered. It smelled like gasoline, a little like soap, and something that was just him.

Or the time he let you braid a tiny piece of his hair during movie night and never took it out, even when Lip made fun of him.

Or when he punched a guy for saying something nasty about you behind your back. You found out later from Debbie. He never told you.

When you asked why his knuckles were bruised, he just said, “Did something dumb.”

He did a lot of dumb things.

But not that.

Sometimes, when you were both walking back from the store or crashing behind the Alibi after a long day, you’d catch him staring.

Not like a friend.

Like someone trying to memorize something they’re afraid to lose.

You pretended not to notice. Because if you acknowledged it, something would shift. Something fragile. And neither of you knew what would happen after that.

You once told him you were thinking about transferring schools. A better program, safer neighborhood, cleaner halls.

He didn’t say much, just went quiet for a while. Then, “Do what’s best for you.”

But after that, he stopped walking you home for a week.

You missed him every time.

The silence between you wasn't empty. It was full of everything neither of you said. Full of looks that lingered, touches that hovered, words that never made it out of your mouths.

And when summer nights stretched long and warm, you'd lie awake, wondering if he was thinking about you too.

Because even if he never said it—

Even if you never did either—

It was there.

In the way he looked at you.

In the way he listened.

In the way he always came back.

Something that felt a lot like love.

Even if it didn’t have a name yet.

....

[isabelckl]

"isn't it unrealistic that every time some rebellion shit goes on in District 12 it's someone related to or connected to Lucy Gray" no because Snow committed the cardinal sin of dating someone from a big family in a small town