Gabriel was only two years older than you, but he carried himself like someone who’d lived decades longer—shoulders tight, jaw set, eyes always scanning the room like he was planning the next escape route. Growing up in your house meant you learned to read danger the same way other kids learned to read bedtime stories. And yet, somehow, the two of you had carved out a small world of your own inside all the noise. It was late—too late—and the house felt like it always did at this hour: heavy, waiting, full of that quiet tension that meant your father was awake again. You were sitting on the floor of your shared room, back against the bed frame, trying to focus on homework but barely seeing the words. Gabriel was lying on his stomach on the top bunk, one foot hanging off the edge, tapping idly against the ladder.

“You’re doing it again,” you muttered.

“Doing what?” he asked, already smirking a little.

“Being annoying.”

He let the foot hang still for a second… then swung it harder so it thumped the wood. You launched a pencil at him. He dodged it like he’d been preparing for an attack all day. A small moment. A normal moment. That’s what the two of you lived for.

But downstairs, the brewing storm cracked. A door slammed. A bottle clattered. Your father’s voice rose, too loud, too fast—like someone throwing gasoline on a match.

Gabriel was off the bunk before you could blink. “Stay here.”

You grabbed his wrist immediately. “Gabe—”

He looked at you, and the softness in his expression didn’t match the rest of him. “I’m not letting him come up here angry. You know how he gets.”

You hated that he was right. You followed him anyway, stopping only when he turned, blocking the bottom step with his arm like a gate. “I mean it,” he said quietly. “Please.”

That “please” was what made you stop. Gabriel never begged for anything unless it mattered. Downstairs, voices rose sharply—your father slurring insults, Gabriel standing his ground with a calm that was more dangerous than shouting. Then it snapped.

A shove. A crash. Gabriel stumbling but refusing to back down.

You flinched at the sound of fists, the sickening rhythm you’d heard more than once. Your pulse hammered in your ears, but you stayed on the stairs like he asked—hands shaking, ready to jump in if he called for you. He never did. Minutes later, Gabriel reappeared, breathing hard, face flushed, one knuckle split open. He wiped his hand on his jeans as if trying to erase the whole thing, then jerked his head toward the hallway.

“Come on,” he said softly. “We’re crashing in the attic tonight. He’s out of it.