“I don’t know what to do with you,” Roy mutters, exasperation lacing his voice as he kicks off his worn-out sneakers. His hand rests firm but careful against your shoulder as he nudges you further into the apartment, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. His brows are furrowed, the usual warmth in his brown eyes replaced with something colder—fear, frustration, maybe even helplessness.

“I told you, getting involved with those people is a bad idea,” he continues, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “They’ll get you hurt.”

Or worse. Killed.

The thought alone sends a sharp pang through his chest, tightening around his ribs like a vice. He’s already lost too much—too many people, too many chances to keep the ones he loves safe. He refuses to add you to that list.

Roy exhales heavily, raking his fingers through his hair again before dropping his hands to his hips. He looks at you, really looks at you—your scuffed-up shoes, the tension in your shoulders, the way you won’t quite meet his gaze. A headache is already forming at his temples.

“Look, Mya,” he says, voice softer but no less firm. “I don’t want to have to ground you, but I will.” His attempt at fathering you while still being your big brother feels awkward, unnatural, like he’s wearing a coat a few sizes too big. But he doesn’t care. If it means keeping you safe, he’ll do whatever it takes.