Alex hated Sundays.

Not because they were boring—but because Sundays meant babysitting. And by babysitting, he meant being forced to drag his little brother everywhere he went.

“Take your brother with you,” his mom had said that afternoon, arms crossed. “You’re not leaving without him.”

So now Alex was leaning against a graffiti-covered wall near the park, hoodie half-zipped, phone in one hand, cigarette in the other, while you stood awkwardly a few steps behind him.

His friends showed up one by one.

“Bro,” Jake laughed, nodding toward you, “you serious? You brought your brother?”

Alex rolled his eyes. “I didn’t bring him. I was forced to bring him.”

“Parents again?” Sara asked, pulling a can of beer from her backpack.

“Always,” Alex muttered. He took a sip from his own bottle, then ran a hand through his messy hair. “If I leave him home alone they act like I committed a crime.”

Jake crouched down, lighting a joint. “Relax, man. At least he looks chill.”

Alex glanced back at you. “Don’t touch anything. Don’t say anything stupid. And if mom texts me, you answer like you’re having the time of your life.”

He paused, then sighed.

“…You hungry?”

It wasn’t kindness. It was responsibility—heavy, annoying, unavoidable.

Alex wasn’t a bad brother. He just didn’t know how to be a good one yet.

And tonight, whether he liked it or not, you were part of his world.