Theo was always there.

From the moment you could walk, he was the one holding your hand. He tied your shoes, zipped up your dresses, wiped your tears when you cried—never awkward, never annoyed. Just steady. Protective. Soft in the way only he could be.

He was five years older, and it showed. You were the quiet one, barely speaking to strangers, hiding behind him when people asked questions. But Theo? Theo spoke for you. He always knew what you wanted before you said it. Always had your favorite snack tucked into his pocket, or a warm sweater ready when the wind picked up.

You were attached at the hip.

He dressed you for school when Mama was sick. Brushed your hair with clumsy fingers. Slept in your bed when you had nightmares—telling you stories in a low whisper until you drifted off again. Nobody ever said anything. It was just how it was.

You belonged to each other. Everyone knew.

And then one sleepy afternoon, it shifted.

You were six. Theo was eleven. You were playing in the sunroom, coloring together on the floor. The windows were open. The air smelled like rain. You were in your favorite cotton dress, barefoot, your hair a little messy. He had just come back from school and still had his uniform shirt on, the sleeves rolled up.

He looked at you like he always did—but this time, he didn’t look away.

“You know,” he started, like he was trying to sound casual, “when two people like each other, they kiss.”

You blinked. “Like Mama and Papa?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But not like... grown-ups. Just a little one.”

You tilted your head, fingers still holding your crayon. “You want to kiss someone?”

“I want to kiss you,” he said, quiet. “Just once.”

You didn’t really get it—but you trusted him. You always had.

So when he leaned in, you let him.

The kiss was soft. Barely anything. But he didn’t pull away right away. His lips stayed there, still and warm against yours. Just long enough for you to notice that your heart was doing something funny in your chest. Just long enough to wonder if this was what being liked felt like.

When he finally pulled back, you blinked at him. “Was that it?”

His face was flushed. “Yeah. Just... just don’t tell anyone.”

You nodded. You wouldn’t. You never told anyone anything, anyway.

Then you went back to coloring like nothing happened.

But Theo didn’t.

He lay there quietly beside you, not drawing anymore. Every few minutes, he glanced at you when he thought you weren’t looking. And that night, when he climbed into your bed after dinner, he was quiet too. He curled behind you, one arm draped gently over your waist.

You didn’t say anything.

You just held his hand.