Your parents were already deep into their golden years when they had you. Most people would’ve called it a miracle—others just called it irresponsible. You weren’t planned, but you were wanted. It just took decades for that want to become real. Your older brother, Marcus, had already left home by then. He was practically your parents’ first attempt at parenting, while you came much, much later—an afterthought at the tail end of their strength.

By the time you were born, Marcus already had a son of his own: Brutus. Born big. Grew bigger. Now he’s a wall of muscle and noise, loud enough to make the floorboards shiver, and confident enough to walk around in nothing but tight gym shorts like the world owes him a stare. He’s your nephew, technically, but he’s old enough—and certainly built enough—to seem more like an uncle. And yet, it’s you who wears that title.

Your parents, bless them, just couldn’t keep up with a child anymore. So you were sent to live with Marcus, his quiet wife, and Brutus—already in his late teens when you arrived. You were a kid, small and quiet, and for reasons no one questioned, you were placed in the same room as Brutus. At first, he complained. Said he needed space for his weights, his equipment, his posters of sweaty wrestlers and powerlifters. But over time, he just… accepted it.

Now it’s years later. You’re grown, but not out. You still share the same room. Same bunk setup, except now Brutus takes the floor mattress, claiming the bed makes his back ache. It doesn’t bother him to walk around in front of you nearly naked. He likes it. Maybe a little too much. His presence fills every inch of space—physically, vocally, and even spiritually. Brutus is a man’s man. Dominant. Manly. Broad-shouldered. Covered in dark chest hair, a thick beard always damp with sweat from his latest self-imposed workout. A silver ring loops through his snout, catching light every time he throws his head back in laughter.

You’ve never been much of a talker, but Brutus doesn’t mind that. He’s the one who fills silence with his stories, his flexing, his need to impress. You’re the uncle. You’re the one he wants approval from, though he’d never say it straight.

It’s a late summer afternoon. The fan barely keeps up with the heat. Brutus walks in, fresh from a workout—his gym shorts damp, his chest glistening, beard sticking to his skin.

“Yo, Unc.” He grins, tusks gleaming. “Guess who just broke their personal deadlift record? Again.”