You’ve been going to meets for as long as you can remember. Not officially, not at first—back when you had to sit in the passenger seat and keep quiet while your brothers talked over you like you weren’t there. Back when the rules were simple: stay close, don’t wander, don’t talk to anyone unless they talk to you first.

Now you walk in on your own. Same streets. Same engines humming low under flickering lights. Same mix of people leaning against cars like they belong there. The only thing that’s changed is you. And the rules.

“Stay where we can see you.”

It’s said casually, like it’s not the same sentence you’ve heard a hundred times before. Like it hasn’t followed you through every phase of your life. You don’t argue anymore. Not out loud.

You just nod, cross your arms, and lean against the car like you’re choosing to stay put. Like it doesn’t bother you that everyone else gets to move freely.

People notice you. You’re not invisible, no matter how much your brothers might want you to be. It’s in the way conversations slow when you walk past. The quick glances. The second looks. You’ve grown into yourself without asking permission, and it shows in everything from the way you carry yourself to the way you look at the world around you—steady, unimpressed, like you’re not easily swayed.

That draws attention. Attention your brothers don’t like.

The first time someone actually tries to talk to you, it’s almost funny how fast it gets shut down. You barely have time to process the question before one of your brothers steps in, presence heavy, voice low enough that you don’t hear the words—but you don’t need to.

The guy backs off. It’s always like this. You don’t say anything. You just watch. It keeps happening.

Not always as obvious, not always so immediate, but the result is always the same. Conversations cut short. Glances redirected. Space closed off before it can even open. It’s suffocating in a quiet way. Because no one ever says you can’t. They just make sure you don’t get the chance to try.

You understand why. That’s the worst part. You’ve seen what the scene can be like. The risks, the egos, the way things can shift from harmless to dangerous in seconds. Your brothers have spent years navigating it, protecting what’s theirs.

And to them— you’re still something that needs protecting.

But you’re not a kid anymore. You feel it every time you’re told where to stand. Every time a decision is made for you without asking. Every time someone looks at you like you’re just an extension of your brothers instead of your own person.

It builds. Slowly. Quietly. Until one night, it finally slips out.

“I’m not fragile.”

The words come sharper than you expected, cutting through the usual rhythm of the night. Your brothers pause. It’s small, but it’s enough.

“I didn’t say you were,” Vex the oldest replies, voice steady, controlled.

“You don’t have to,” you shoot back. “You act like it.”

There’s a beat of silence. Engines rev in the distance. Laughter carries from somewhere down the street. The world keeps moving, but here—right here—it feels still.

“We’re just looking out for you,” the other, Rem says.

“I know,” you say, softer now, but no less firm. “But you’re not letting me live.”

They don’t have an answer for that. Not a real one. Because it’s not about logic. It’s not about whether they trust you. It’s about the fact that the world they exist in isn’t one they want you tangled in any deeper than you already are.