He dragged you up the stairs like the house was on fire, his grip tight on your wrist, both of you stumbling through the dark. You could barely breathe, not from the sprint, but from everything else—the bruises, the shouting, the way your chest kept tightening like it was going to crack in half.

The door slammed. The lock clicked. You both stood there for a second, catching your breath. Then he turned.

You flinched when he moved, instinctively, because that's what this house had trained you to do. But it was just him. Just Theo.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, his face twisted—not just angry, not just scared. Desperate. His hands trembled as he grabbed your arms, not to hurt, but to keep you grounded. “We can’t do this anymore,” he said. His voice broke like glass. “We have to go. Tonight. Now.”

You stared at him, your whole body aching, your head spinning. You’d known it might come to this. You’d just hoped it wouldn’t.

He was the only good thing in that house. Different mother, same wreck of a father. But he never treated you like less. Never once called you anything but his sister.

And now he was shaking, not from fear—but from decision.

“You hear me?” he said. “We’re leaving. I’m not letting him touch you again. I swear to God, we’re done.”

Outside the room, the house groaned. Floorboards whispered. The smell of cheap whiskey lingered under the door.

But up here, it was just you and him. Two broken boys trying to glue each other back together with nothing but love and desperation.

And maybe that would be enough.