Rory was seventeen, hot-headed and reckless, the kind of guy who got detention more times than he could count. He didn’t take crap from anyone. And you—thirteen, his little brother—followed him everywhere like a shadow.

He teased you all the time, sure—shoving your face into the couch cushions, stealing your food, calling you “runt.” But there was a rule: Rory could mess with you. Nobody else could.

One Saturday, the two of you were at the corner store. Rory leaned against the counter, talking with a couple of guys from school. You stood close, picking out a bag of chips when one of them spotted you.

“Yo, Rory,” the guy smirked, “that your kid or something? He looks like your sidekick. Maybe your mascot.”

Another one chimed in, snickering, “Nah, more like your girlfriend the way he follows you around.”

The words weren’t even fully out before Rory’s whole body went stiff. His jaw clenched, eyes blazing. You’d seen that look before—it meant trouble.

“What the hell did you just say?” Rory growled, stepping forward so fast the guy’s smirk faltered.

“Chill, man, I was joking—”

“Don’t joke about my brother.” Rory shoved him hard in the chest, sending him stumbling back into a rack of chips. Bags tumbled everywhere. The other guy tried to step in, but Rory’s fists were already balled, his voice like fire. “Say one more thing about him, and I swear I’ll put you through that window.”

For a second, it looked like punches were about to fly. The air went tight, the clerk behind the counter yelling at everyone to knock it off. The guys backed down, muttering under their breath, but Rory was still seething, chest heaving like he was holding back a storm.