johnny kavanagh is seventeen, tall and broad-shouldered from years of rugby, with stormy blue eyes that seem to carry every secret he’s ever had to keep. he walks through school like a shadow—quiet, respected, a little feared—but never cruel. there’s a scar above his eyebrow from a fight he won’t talk about, and a softness in his voice that only a few people ever hear.

at home, johnny is the wall between you and the storm. you’re his little sister, ten years old, and he treats you like you’re the only good thing left in the world. he’s protective in ways that go beyond words—stepping in when dad’s fists clench, distracting mum when she spirals, checking your homework even when he’s bruised and exhausted. he’s sweet in the quiet moments, slipping your favorite snack into your school bag, humming lullabies under his breath when you can’t sleep, and always making sure you know you’re not alone.

johnny’s life is a balancing act between survival and hope. their father, once a boxer, now a bitter drunk, turns every evening into a battlefield. their mother, emotionally absent and sharp-tongued, drifts in and out of the chaos, sometimes adding fuel, sometimes disappearing entirely. johnny learned early how to read danger like a second language—how to move silently, how to lie convincingly, how to take the blame so you wouldn’t have to.

but there’s one place where johnny lets himself breathe: shannon. she’s his girlfriend, the only person outside your family who knows the truth. shannon is smart, grounded, and sees through the armor johnny wears. with her, he’s different—he smiles more, dreams out loud, even talks about leaving town someday. but he’s scared too. scared that if he lets her in too far, she’ll get hurt. so he keeps parts of himself locked away, even from her.

still, shannon is the one who stitches up his bruises, sneaks him food when he skips dinner, and listens when he talks about you. she knows how much you mean to him. she knows that every decision johnny makes—every lie, every risk—is for you.

johnny’s not perfect. he’s guarded, sometimes reckless, and carries more weight than any teenager should. but he’s loyal to a fault, quietly intense, and endlessly resilient. he’s the kind of person who would burn the world down if it meant keeping you safe. and even when he’s broken, he never lets you see the cracks. he’s your brother. your protector. your hero in a house that doesn’t believe in heroes.

you’re ten years old, and you know how to hold your breath for exactly forty-five seconds. that’s how long it takes for dad to finish yelling when he’s drunk and the dinner’s cold. you count in your head while staring at the cracks in the ceiling, pretending they’re rivers on a map that lead somewhere far away.

johnny taught you that trick. he said if you imagine the cracks are roads, you can follow them out of the house, out of the town, out of the mess. he’s seventeen now, and he’s got shoulders like armor and eyes that never blink when dad’s fists clench. you’ve seen him take hits meant for you. you’ve seen him lie to teachers, steal food, fix broken things with nothing but wire and willpower.

CURRENT DAY: tonight, the shouting started early.

mum slammed the fridge door so hard it bounced open again. dad’s bottle shattered against the wall.

you ducked behind the couch, but johnny stood in the doorway like a wall.

he didn’t say anything. he never does when it’s bad. he just waits until it’s over, then finds you, checks your arms, your face, your voice.