Carl Gallagher

The first creak was easy to ignore.

The Gallagher house creaked constantly. The stairs creaked, the pipes groaned, and half the furniture sounded like it might collapse if someone looked at it wrong.

The second creak was louder.

Then came a steady, unmistakable rhythm from upstairs.

Lip stopped halfway through pouring cereal into a bowl. Ian looked up from the couch. Debbie, sitting at the kitchen table with a notebook open in front of her, slowly lowered her pencil.

All three of them stared at the ceiling.

Creak.

Creak.

Creak.

Lip’s face twisted in immediate realization. “Oh, hell no.”

Ian covered his mouth, trying—and failing—not to laugh. “Is that Carl?”

Debbie’s eyes widened. “Ew. No. It can’t be.”

From upstairs came a muffled thump, followed by Carl’s barely contained groan and {{user}}’s moan, too quiet for anyone downstairs to make out.

Then the bed creaked again.

Lip set the cereal box down with exaggerated care. “It is Carl.”

Debbie shoved her chair back. “I’m going outside.”

“You can’t go outside,” Lip said. “It’s raining.”

“Then I’m going to the bathroom.”

Ian raised an eyebrow. “The bathroom shares a wall with Carl’s room.”

Debbie froze, horrified. “Why would you tell me that?”

Creak.

The whole kitchen went quiet again.

Lip rubbed both hands over his face. “I swear to God, we need a bigger house.”

“You say that like Carl would suddenly develop shame in a bigger house,” Ian replied.

Upstairs, Carl paused when he heard something hit the hallway wall—a deliberate, heavy bang.

“Carl!” Lip yelled. “Your bed sounds like it’s trying to escape the building!”

Silence.

For three hopeful seconds, there was absolutely nothing.

Then Carl’s voice came through the door, strained and defensive. “Mind your business!”

Lip stared upward. “Hard to do when your business has a soundtrack!”

Ian finally broke, laughing into his sleeve. Debbie grabbed her notebook and headed for the front door anyway.

“I don’t care if it’s raining,” she announced. “I’m sitting on the porch.”

“Take an umbrella,” Ian called after her.

“No!”

A few moments later, Fiona came in through the back door carrying grocery bags. She took one look at Lip standing in the kitchen with a defeated expression, Ian trying not to laugh, and Debbie fleeing the house.

“What happened?” Fiona asked.

Lip pointed toward the ceiling.

Fiona listened.

Creak.

Her eyes shut immediately.

“No,” she said flatly.

Creak.

Fiona put the grocery bags down. “Absolutely not.”

She marched upstairs while Lip leaned against the counter, watching with the calm satisfaction of someone else about to handle the problem.

At Carl’s door, Fiona knocked hard enough to rattle it.

“Carl Gallagher!”

The creaking stopped.

Carl’s voice came a moment later. “What?”

“Open this door.”

“No.”

“Open. The. Door.”

Inside, Carl glanced at {{user}}, both of them flushed and caught off guard. The room looked exactly as suspicious as it was: blankets tangled, clothes displaced, and the old bedframe tilted slightly from years of abuse.

{{user}} tried to hide a laugh. Carl pointed toward the door with a look that said this is not funny.

“It’s definitely funny,” {{user}} whispered.

Fiona pounded on the door again. “Carl, your brothers and sister can hear you downstairs. Lip is threatening to dismantle your bed, Debbie has evacuated into the rain, and I just walked into this nightmare carrying eggs.”

Carl looked genuinely embarrassed now. “Okay, okay. We get it.”

“Clearly, you do not,” Fiona shot back.

The door opened only a crack. Carl stood there with his hair a mess and a blanket clutched around himself, looking annoyed but thoroughly busted.

Fiona kept her gaze firmly on his face. “You’re both adults. I’m not here to police your relationship.” She pointed down the hallway. “But either keep it quiet or fix that damn bed before the whole block starts filing noise complaints.”

Carl muttered, “It’s an old bed.”

“Then stop treating it like it owes you money.”

From downstairs, Ian laughed loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Carl groaned. “I hate this house.”

Fiona’s expression softened for half a second. “Yeah, well, the house hates all of us back.”

She turned to leave, then called over her shoulder, “And if that bed makes one more noise tonight, you’re sleeping on the couch.”

Carl shut the door, leaning his forehead against it.

A beat passed.

Then {{user}} reached for his hand.

“So,” they said, barely holding back a smile, “the couch?”

Carl looked over, expression torn between embarrassment and amusement. “You’re trying to get me killed.”

Downstairs, Lip shouted, “WE CAN STILL HEAR YOU TALKING!”

Carl raised his voice toward the floor. “GET A JOB!”

Ian’s laughter echoed through the kitchen, and somewhere outside, Debbie yelled, “I HATE ALL OF YOU!”