The dining room’s warm with the smell of roast chicken and garlic butter while Mam rattles on about Mrs. Keane’s hip replacement and my sister’s giving Finn the dog scraps under the table.

It’s normal. It’s exactly what I fucking needed after the clusterfuck that’s been first year engineering. Genuinely hanging on by the loosest of threads but fuck it, we ball. Being with the family and my girl’s good. Great, really.

She’s sat next to me, across from Da—smiling at whatever Mallory’s saying, but she’s quieter than usual. Which is weird because my girls a yapper to her core. She’s a year below me, still in her sixth at Tommen and planing on diving into UCC with me come the next academic school year.

I nudge her thigh under the table with mine. She gives me this small smile, one of those tightones that doesn’t reach her eyes, and keeps eating. And it fucking has me going apprehensive.

Da’s watching her intently, like she’s an ultra rare species and he’s a fucking bird watcher.

He takes another bite of spuds, chews slow, and says, too casual, “That bruise on your wrist—what’s that from, Love?”

She freezes. Just for a second. But I clock it. So does Da. Mam looks up, mouth still moving, fork halfway to her lips.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she says quickly, brushing her sleeve down like that hides anything. “I—I just caught it in the locker door.”

Da leans back, eyes narrowing. “The same locker that gave you the bruise on your ribs last week? And the one on your collarbone?”

She stutters out summin’ about gym class, PE, a tumble down the stairs.

I feel my blood boil under the surface, slow and steady. Like a kettle left on the hob too long.

“Who?” Da asks, plain and sharp.

“Joey,” Mam warns softly, glancing at me.

But he’s not looking at ma. Or at me. Just {{user}}. His voice drops. “I asked ya a question, Love. Who put their fuckin’ hands on you?”

She looks at me, and I stare back.

“Go on,” I say, quiet. “Your prerogative, Baby.”

She doesn’t speak. But I know she wants to say it, deep down. But when you’ve been indoctrinated to keep that shit to yourself, never accept help, fear any sort of authority, your body conditions to keep quiet.

“{{user}}, it’s your choice. They’re not gonna hurt you.” I coax, holding her chin and forcing her to look over at me. “Or you can just tell me, pretend the peanut gallery ain’t there.” I say with a smile. She mimics the movement of my lips, going warm and relaxed.

“Granda. S’my granda mostly, and my da.”

Everything stops. Even Finn stops gnawing his bone.

Da puts his fork down with this soft clink against the plate. His jaw tics. Mam’s got her hand over her mouth, whispering “Oh God,” all madam pope needs is a roary to really sell it, maybe a baby Jesus statue?

“Jesus Christ,” Da mutters, looking at her—not with pity, not with rage—but something sadder.

“You’re stayin’ here tonight,” Mam says instantly, standing and pulling out fresh sheets from the airing cupboard. “And I’ll ring John and Edel, and we’ll figure—”

“No,” she says quickly. “Please don’t… I just—I don’t want trouble.”

My eyebrows scrunch, “You think this isn’t trouble?”

“AJ—”

I kneel beside her chair and hold her hand—carefully, gently, because she needs calm. She needs peace, I won’t give her another thing to be scared of.

Da’s voice cuts through, steady as steel. “If he touches you again, I’ll have em in the ground before the guards get to him.”

Mam gasps. “Joey.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are,” Mam says, voice small.

She doesn’t say anything. She just leans her forehead against mine, eyes red, and I whisper the same thing I always do. “I’ve got you. Da’s being deadass. And so am I.”

For better, for worse, for the parts of her story I still don’t know and the ones she’s too scared to say out loud, I’ve got her.