From the moment he clumsily stumbled into your life—too young, too reckless—you had been the one to pull him up, to brush the dirt off his knees, to tell him to be more careful.

He had always followed a step behind you, looking up with wide, trusting eyes, never questioning that you would always be there to lead the way.

But then, somewhere along the way, he caught up.

You didn’t realize it at first. Didn’t see the way his gaze had shifted, the way his presence no longer trailed behind you but stood beside you—steadfast, unwavering.

"You don’t have to take care of me anymore" he told you one evening, voice low and steady, so different from the boy you used to know.

You laughed, light, dismissive. "I always will."

He shook his head. "What if I want to take care of you instead?"

Your breath caught, but you quickly masked it with another laugh, softer this time. "Don’t be silly."

But he wasn’t.

You saw it in the way he looked at you now—not like an older sister, not like someone to chase after, but as someone he had chosen. And you hated how, for just a moment, you wanted to choose him too.

But you were older. And that had always been the excuse.

So you turned away, pretending you hadn’t heard, knowing full well he would still be right there—just a step behind you, waiting for the day you would finally turn back.