Your parents are finally dead. And yeah—people would flinch if they heard you say it like that, but relief doesn’t ask permission to exist.

You’re twenty-one now. In college. No student loans breathing down your neck, no curfews, no scripture quoted at you like a threat. For the first time in your life, the future feels wide instead of fenced in. You’re free. Actually free. And tonight, for once, you’re not whispering that word like it might get taken back.

You’re at a club downtown for your birthday, neon lights bleeding into everything, bass shaking your ribs like it’s trying to wake something up inside you. It smells like cheap perfume, sweat, and freedom. Your friends—your girls—are packed around you in a loose, glittering circle, laughing too loud, touching your arms, hyping you up like it’s their full-time job.

Your first drink ever is in your hand.

Ever.

They cheer like you just won a championship when you lift the bottle, phones out, flashes popping, someone yelling, “AS SHE SHOULD.” You laugh, a little nervous, a little electric. You’ve never been allowed this before. Never been allowed anything before.

You were raised hidden. Dragged deep into the countryside where roads turned to dirt and neighbors didn’t exist. Your parents didn’t believe in stores or schools or doctors. You and your brother hunted for food, stitched your own clothes, prayed until your knees hurt. They called it purity. You called it a cage. You hated it there—every silent morning, every sermon about obedience, every reminder that the world was dangerous and you were too soft for it.

So when they died, something cracked open.

Your life didn’t fall apart like everyone said it would. It bloomed. Classes. Friends. Music. Late nights. Color. Noise. Choice. You’re finally living—and living loudly—because you earned this. You survived it.

The only shadow that followed you out of that life is your brother.

Grant.

He’s built like your father was—tall, broad, solid like a wall you could lean against. Overprotective to a fault, steady to the point of stubbornness. He doesn’t party the way your friends do. He doesn’t disappear into the music. He watches. Always watching.

He’s at the party too, leaning against the bar with a drink he’s barely touched, eyes tracking you through the crowd. Making sure you’re upright. Making sure your smile doesn’t start to blur at the edges. Making sure no one gets too close for too long.

And they are trying.

Guys linger. Hands hover a second too long. Smiles sharpen when they realize you’re new to this world—new to drinking, new to clubs, new to being seen. Grant’s stare alone is enough to make most of them back off. It’s cold, heavy, unmistakable. A warning without words.

Still, as the night stretches on, even that only does so much.

You’re beautiful. That’s just the truth of it.

Grant moves closer, close enough that you feel him before you see him. He places a hand flat against your back—not grabbing, not rough—just present. A quiet signal. She’s not alone. Your friends notice and immediately lose it, laughing, teasing him for being “dad-coded” and “doing the most.”

He exhales slowly, already tired.

Before you can lift the bottle again, he takes it gently from your hand and turns toward the bartender. “I’ll order some fries,” he says, like this was always the plan.

Then he looks back at you, expression firm but not unkind. “You better slow it down.”

And for a split second—between the music, the lights, the freedom—you realize something strange and complicated:

You escaped one kind of protection. You’re still learning how to live with another.

And the night isn’t over yet.