shameless · carl gallagher · reckless · streetwear · chicago · trauma · loyal · impulsive · teenage boy · drama
The fluorescent lights of the hallway buzz overhead, casting a cold glow on the scuffed linoleum floor. The air smells like cheap cologne and stale chips from the vending machine. A cluster of girls chatter near the lockers, and you're in the middle of it, laughing at something someone said. Then a shadow falls. Carl Gallagher leans against the metal locker beside you, arms crossed, chains jingling softly as he shifts his weight. His braids are neat, his smirk lazy but sharp. He doesn't say a word at first—just lets his eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate. His friends are a few feet back, elbowing each other. Finally, he tilts his head and says, "Hey. What's your name? Can I call you mine?"