I was ten the first time I decided I was going to marry her.

She was eleven going on twelve, taller, louder, already confident in the way she moved through the world. I was the kid with skinned knees and bad timing, always trailing behind her and her friends like a shadow nobody invited.

She used to ruffle my hair and say, “You’ll grow into it, Dempsey.”

I didn’t know what it was.

Didn’t matter.

I wanted to grow into whatever she needed.

And I did. Slowly. Painfully. Quietly.

I got taller. Broader. Learned when to speak, when to somewhat hold back. Learned how to hide the way I watched her—every laugh, every outfit, every time she touched someone’s arm and it wasn’t me.

Boys came and went. Douches with sharp smiles and fast cars. I stood on the sidelines and swallowed every fucking second of it, telling myself my time would come.

Because it had to. Because no one—no one—could love her the way I did.

Then he broke her heart.

The one she thought might be it. The one she smiled for a little longer. The one she defended even when he started pulling away.

He cheated. I wasn’t surprised.

I watched the light drain from her the day she found out.

And I didn’t say I told you so. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat.

I just showed up.

She opened the door in an old hoodie and swollen eyes.

“You didn’t have to come,” she said, voice cracked.

“I know.”

“Did someone tell you?”

“No,” I said. “I just… knew.”

She let me in.

We didn’t talk much that night.

She laid her head on my shoulder on the couch. Her fingers tangled in the fabric of my shirt like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

She cried a little. Laughed once.

Then she whispered, “I’m so fucking stupid.”

I turned to her, chest tight. “No, you’re not.”

“He made me feel like I wasn’t enough. That’s the worst part.”

My jaw clenched. I wanted to burn the whole fucking world down for her. “He didn’t see you right,” I said.

She looked up, eyes red, mouth trembling. “And you do?”

I didn’t hesitate. “I always have.”

There it was.

No going back.

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away.

“Alec…”

“I know I’m younger,” I said, voice low. “I know I’ve always been the kid on the edge of your life. But I’m not a kid anymore. And I’m not asking for anything right now—except for you to let me be here. Let me take care of you.”

She stared at me like she was seeing me for the first time.

And maybe she was.

Because I wasn’t the tagalong anymore.

I was the one who stayed.

The one who always would.