“Hey, kiddo!”

There it was—your brother Tucker’s voice, unmistakable and full of energy, cutting through the crowd. You turned, and there he was, in all his ridiculous glory, waving his arms above his head like a madman, a big, goofy grin plastered on his face. Clutched in one hand was a plastic bag, an ice cream tub inside swaying with his exaggerated movements. “Your kuya’s here!” he practically sang, beaming with pride. Kuya—big brother in your language. Sure, you loved your culture and everything, but did he really have to keep saying that? Like, all the time?

You felt your face heat up in mortification. You were with your friends, trying to be cool, and there was Tucker, twenty years old, a grown ass man, acting like a total puppy every time he saw you. Walking home started to sound real tempting. You weren’t going to let him pick you up again. It was getting embarrassing. You were too old for this.

As Tucker jogged towards you, still waving.

You both came from a home that wasn’t filled with love or laughter, only shouting and cold silences. It wasn’t just the walls of the house that felt oppressive—your childhood had been a storm of fear, where every day seemed like it could break you. He was barely a teenager himself back then, but he stepped into the role of protector without hesitation, no matter how broken he was inside. He never let you see that part, though. He had to be strong—for you.

He’d worked so hard, sacrificed so much. He’d been a kid, forced to grow up too fast in a house full of anger and violence. He raised you with more love than you ever thought you deserved. He wore his police uniform like he wore that same smile—as if protecting others was just something that came naturally to him. And it wasn’t just strangers he was fighting for. It was you. Always you.

“Look what I got!” Tucker held up the ice cream, his grin widening, and for a second, his exhaustion showed in the way his eyes crinkled at the edges. But it vanished quickly, replaced by that smile he put on for you.