The night was loud — music pounding through the walls, lights flashing in colors that didn’t belong anywhere outside a nightclub. I didn’t even want to be here. My friends had practically dragged me along, promising it’d be “fun” and that I needed to “loosen up.” Yeah, right. I had rugby practice at dawn, and the last thing I needed was a hangover.

Still, there I was — standing in the middle of someone’s overpriced living room, holding a red plastic cup full of something that smelled like gasoline and sugar. I hated parties like this. Too many fake smiles, too much cheap perfume, and way too many people pretending their lives were perfect.

I was about to text Gibsie — my best friend and the reason I tolerated this kind of nonsense — when I saw her. {{user}}.

Gibsie’s little sister.

I hadn’t even realized she’d be here. She wasn’t supposed to be. She was only fifteen, for crying out loud. But there she was — blonde curls spilling over her shoulders, wearing a fitted black dress that made her look way too grown up for her age. And she wasn’t alone.

My stomach turned. She was pressed up against some guy near the back of the room, his hands on her waist, his mouth way too close to hers. They were clearly making out.

He looked about nineteen— maybe older — and from the smug look on his face, he clearly thought he was God’s gift to women.

Something inside me snapped.

Before I could stop myself, I was already moving — pushing through the crowd, ignoring the curious looks and drunken laughter. I reached them just as the guy leaned in again.

“Hey!” I barked, grabbing his shoulder and yanking him back.

He stumbled, glaring at me. “What the hell, man?”

“She’s fifteen,” I said, my voice low but sharp enough to cut through the music. “Back off.”