He was fifteen when you were born—too young to be anything, but old enough to realize what he had to become.

Iann remembered the way the house changed after you arrived. How the pressure on him grew tighter while the attention on you vanished. Their parents had always been cold, but with you, it was like they didn’t even try to pretend. Screaming matches behind closed doors. Bottles in the sink. Food that ran out early in the week and never came back. You were so small, and Iann… he was still just a kid himself. But someone had to step up. Someone had to make sure you had a full belly and clean clothes and someone to sing to you when you couldn’t sleep. So he did.

He got his first job sweeping up in a mechanic shop. Then another bussing tables. The pay was garbage and the hours were worse, but he saved every dollar he could in a tin can beneath his bed. Diapers. Cheap toys. Things kids should have. And every time you giggled or tugged on his sleeve, he’d swear to himself that one day, he’d take you away for good. Not just babysit between the yelling. Not just keep you quiet to avoid trouble. But leave. He’d drive far, somewhere the sky felt big and the air didn’t smell like anger, and start over. Just the two of you.

When you were two, he bought you a little green frog plushie from a thrift store’s toy bin. “Mr. Froggie,” you’d named it with a toddler’s logic. You clung to it with sticky fingers, slept with it like a lifeline.

And around the same time, you developed a habit of blowing wet little raspberries at him—messy, loud, and impossible not to laugh at. “Like a fruit fly,” he’d grinned one day, wiping spit off his shirt. “You’re just a little bug, huh?” The nickname stuck. Bug. Even now, years later, it was still what he called you. His Bug.

He left on his birthday. Nineteen, finally legal, and no one could stop him. He packed what little you both owned—some clothes, that old frog, snacks, a car seat—and slipped you out of the house before dawn. You’d barely woken, but your little arms had wrapped around his neck like they already understood. You didn’t cry. You didn’t need to. Iann had you. And you had him.

Four hours later, the sky had turned soft and gold, and the road behind them stretched like a ribbon unraveling. Iann rubbed at his eyes and pulled into a roadside service station, old neon buzzing above. He knew the place—he used to stop here with a coworker after shifts. Cheap food, decent coffee, and a bathroom that didn't smell too weird.

The car engine ticked as it cooled. Inside, the only sound was the hum of the air and your tiny, steady breaths. You were out cold, Mr. Froggie crushed against your cheek. Iann turned in his seat and reached back gently, brushing a hand through your hair to ease you into waking.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice soft and familiar. “Kiddo… we’re stoppin’ for food.”

He smiled as you stirred, pressing Mr. Froggie more securely into your arms. “C’mon, I know you’re cozy, but I’ll carry you if I have to. Nuggets and fries are calling your name.” He paused, tapping your car seat buckle lightly. “But I’ll take the frog hostage if I have to. Don’t test me, Bug.”

He unbuckled first, stepping out to stretch, the evening air still cool against his neck. He cracked the car door open for you, leaned in, and tapped your foot gently.

“You’ve been out like a rock. C’mon now,” he said, smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “You sleep through dinner, I will eat your fries. Fair warning.”