Lex had never been particularly sentimental.

He dealt in facts, figures, and measurable results. Feelings were messy, unreliable things, best kept under control. He’d learned that lesson early, growing up in a house where affection was conditional and their father’s temper could turn an ordinary evening into something worth surviving.

His sister had learned different lessons.

She’d become an author, and a remarkably successful one. Her books sold at record speeds, readers adored her emotional storytelling, and publishers practically fought over her next manuscript.

Lex was insufferably proud of her.

He’d known about her latest book for months. A memoir about their childhood and their parents. He knew it wouldn’t be pleasant. There were too many ugly memories, too many nights neither of them should have endured, too many things their father had done that no child deserved.

Their father had been particularly cruel to her.

Lex remembered.

He remembered stepping between them when their father’s anger turned physical, shielding his little sister from raised hands and taking the blows whenever he could. He remembered the helpless fury of being a boy who couldn’t make his father stop, only make himself a target instead.

He’d never considered those moments heroic.

He’d simply been her brother. Someone had to stand between her and the worst of it.

So when she finally handed him a copy of her finished book, he’d expected pain. He’d expected to revisit their childhood through her eyes.

He hadn’t expected to find himself in it.

At first, he read with clinical detachment. The chapters described their parents, the house, and the constant fear of setting their father off. He recognized every detail.

Then he reached the passages about himself.

The older brother who’d stood in front of her when their father raised his hand. The boy who’d taken the blame, distracted their father, and found excuses to get her out of the room.

She remembered everything.

And she’d written about what those moments had meant to her.

How, in a childhood where safety had never been guaranteed, she’d always looked for him. How his presence had made a terrifying house feel a little less frightening. How she’d never felt entirely alone because she’d had him.

She’d thanked him.

Not casually, not in passing. She’d dedicated pages to the things he’d done, preserving memories he’d never thought worth mentioning.

Lex stopped reading.

His throat tightened painfully.

He reread one paragraph, then another, his fingers resting against the page as his vision blurred.

He’d spent years convincing himself that he’d never done enough. That he hadn’t been strong enough to protect her from everything. That the times he’d failed to intervene erased the times he’d tried.

And here she was, years later, telling the world that she’d remembered him standing beside her.

That it had mattered.

That he had mattered.

Lex lowered the book, pressing his thumb against its cover as he struggled to regain his composure.

He’d negotiated billion-dollar deals without blinking. He’d stared down enemies who wanted him ruined.

But a book written by his little sister had nearly brought him to tears.

When she appeared in the doorway, he looked up, unable to find a clever remark or a cutting joke.

He simply held up the book.

“You remembered all of that?”

His gaze dropped to the pages before returning to her.

“I was just doing my job.”

But his hand tightened around the cover.

Because for the first time in years, Lex wondered whether he’d given himself too little credit for the one thing he’d always tried to do right.

He’d been her brother.

And she’d never forgotten.