“You’re not going out with those assholes?”

Stacy’s voice comes from somewhere near the floor, strained and irritated as she drops to her hands and knees to look under the couch. Her bracelets clink softly against the hardwood. The hem of her dress rides up her thighs as she stretches forward, completely unaware—or maybe completely aware—of how she looks.

You’re half-melted into the couch cushions, staring at the TV without really seeing it. She reaches farther under the couch

“I swear if you hid them again—”

You flip the channel.

The truth is, you did hide them. Not well. Not cleverly. Just enough to delay her. Just enough to feel like you had control over something.

You watch her from the corner of your eye.

She’s dressed up. Not like she’s going to school. She’s wearing a tight white crop top that shows a sliver of her stomach when she moves, thin straps barely holding to her shoulders. The neckline dips lower than you’re used to. Her skirt is short—too short in your opinion—hugging her hips in a way that makes you want to throw a hoodie over her shoulders and lock the door.

You hate that she feels like she has to dress like that. You hate even more that part of you knows she just likes feeling pretty.

She finally sits back on her heels, brushing hair out of her face. “You’re not going out tonight?” she asks,

You shrug. “Maybe.”

She snorts. “Yeah. Maybe you’ll go sit in some parking lot and pretend you’re in a music video.”

You don’t rise to it.

Your friends. The boys. A pack of them—loud, reckless, always smelling like smoke and gasoline. They laugh at stupid things. They steal stupid things. They dare each other to do worse.

They were the first people who didn’t look at you with pity.When teachers whispered about your home life. When neighbors stared too long. When other kids asked why your parents never showed up to anything.

The boys didn’t ask questions. They handed you a beer and said, “You in?”

And yeah. You were in.

You started staying out later. Started coming home with bruised knuckles. You tell yourself you don’t go as far as they do. You tell yourself you’re just there so you don’t feel alone when Stacy’s out with Bryan.

But you know they’re a bad influence.You’ve watched one of them get arrested and still thought, I’ll go tomorrow anyway.

Because when you’re with them, you’re not the kid from the broken house. You’re not the brother who hovers too much. You’re just another guy in a crowd, yelling into the night.

She stands up and walks over to you now, crossing her arms.“You look like shit,” she says bluntly.

You glance up at her.

She tilts her head, studying you. “Like one of those garage band boys who thinks being miserable is a personality trait.”

You almost smile. Almost.She steps closer.

You and Stacy used to share a mattress on the floor when the heat got shut off. Used to sit back-to-back in the dark when your parents were fighting in the kitchen. Used to make up stories about running away somewhere warm and quiet and safe.

She’s not just your sister.She’s the only person who stayed.

When your parents disappeared for three days straight, she stayed.

When the fridge was empty, she split the last granola bar with you and pretended she wasn’t hungry.

When you got into your first fight at school, she cleaned the blood off your lip and told you you looked tough.

Now she’s standing in front of you in a skirt that barely reaches mid-thigh, legs bare, lip gloss shining under the light.

And some guy named Bryan gets to see her like that.

“You gonna say something?” she asks.

You shake your head. “Just don’t stay out too late.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not twelve.”

You look at her outfit again. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Oh my god,” she groans, stepping closer and nudging your knee with hers. “You’re so dramatic.”

She sighs, then extends her hand toward you.

“I know you have my shoes… hand them over.”