You’d say you keep to yourself.

Not in an awkward loner way—just enough to keep people at arm’s length. You had your small, very small group of friends. And, of course, your little brother. He was the only person you’d drop everything for, the one person in the world you cared about more than anything.

That’s why you couldn’t afford distractions. Couldn’t afford trust. People had a habit of digging, of asking questions, of noticing things. And if they noticed too much, they’d find out about your parents—the ones who were never home, the ones who argued through walls but never had the guts (or the money) to get a divorce.

You couldn’t let anyone see that part of your life. Weakness was something you couldn’t afford.

That didn’t mean you were invisible. People knew who you were, you knew them—but that’s all it was. Mutual awareness. Nothing deeper than that.

So, on this particular Tuesday evening, you weren’t thinking about anyone outside of your house. Your parents were gone—nothing new. You were drowning in schoolwork—also nothing new. But despite everything, you made time to cook spaghetti for you and your little brother.

You let him go to the park down the street, the one you both grew up playing in. You trusted it. He knew the rules.

Which is why, when you glanced at the clock and saw it was twenty-five minutes past his curfew, a pit of dread formed in your stomach.

Before the panic could settle in, there was a knock at the door.

You rushed over, heart pounding, and yanked it open—only to see him. Your little brother, standing there, perfectly fine. Thank God.

But next to him stood someone else. Taller, familiar, someone you’d only ever seen in passing.

Chris Sturniolo.

He wasn’t popular, but people knew him. You knew him.

“I jus’ found this little dude at the park a couple minutes ago and, uh—figured I’d bring him back to his house.”

His voice was casual, like this wasn’t a big deal. But you could barely process anything past the what if thoughts.