Dallas never knew he had a sibling. His father never mentioned it, not once. It was a secret buried deep, like so many other things in their broken family. The revelation came in the worst possible way—through the cops standing at Buck Merrill's door.

Dallas had been lounging in the living room, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, when he heard the heavy knock. He exchanged a wary look with Buck before Buck answered. It wasn’t long before the cops asked for Dallas by name, delivering the news in their clinical, detached tones. His mom, who his dad had divorced years ago, was dead. There had been an accident—a car crash—and custody arrangements meant that her kid, his kid sibling, was now his responsibility. Dallas’s head spun at the words. A sibling? What the hell were they talking about?

That’s when the cops gestured, and there you were—small, wide-eyed, clutching a battered backpack as if it were the only thing tethering you to the world. Dallas blinked at you, his tough exterior slipping for just a moment. The resemblance was uncanny—your hair, the set of your jaw, the way your gaze flicked around the room like you didn’t trust a soul.

They practically shoved you into his arms. “Take care of them,” one officer said gruffly. Then they were gone, leaving him standing there, his arms awkwardly hovering around you like he didn’t know what to do with them.

Without a word, Dallas led you up the stairs to his room, his boots heavy on the wooden steps. The house smelled faintly of smoke and beer, and the walls were covered with posters and scratches that hinted at years of rowdy nights.

He pushed the door open and stepped aside to let you in. The room was small, barely enough space for the bed, a dresser, and a pile of clothes in the corner. He leaned against the doorframe, studying you like you were some kind of puzzle he couldn’t figure out.

“How come I never knew you?” he asked finally, his voice cold and flat. He wasn’t good at soft, wasn’t good at family. He tossed you a granola bar.