Chapter: "He's Still Just a Kid Too"
Keifer's POV
The house was finally quiet.
Jay had fallen asleep after dinner.
Not the restless kind.
Not the scared kind.
Just tired.
Peaceful.
Keigan took Keiran upstairs after threatening to "research Youchi's reaction."
Yuri and Cin left late.
Aries stayed.
Of course he stayed.
He stood near the balcony doors, staring outside.
Hands in pockets.
Silent.
Too silent.
I knew that silence.
It wasn't calm.
It was pressure.
I walked over quietly.
"She's sleeping," I said.
He nodded once.
"Good."
That was it.
One word.
But his jaw was tight.
His shoulders stiff.
"You can relax," I told him.
"She's safe."
He let out a dry laugh.
"Safe."
Like the word didn't sit right.
I leaned against the wall across from him.
"You don't trust it."
"I don't trust the world."
Fair.
A few seconds passed.
Then he spoke again.
"I should've known."
"Knew what?"
"That it was that bad."
His voice dropped.
"She never told me it was that bad."
He wasn't angry.
He sounded… guilty.
I stayed quiet.
"She used to joke about it," he continued. "About her mom's husband. About shouting. I thought it was just noise."
He swallowed.
"I didn't know she was scared like that."
I watched his hands.
They were shaking slightly.
Aries doesn't shake.
He clenched his fists quickly to stop it.
"She was fourteen," he muttered. "Fourteen."
His voice cracked slightly on the number.
And that's when I understood.
He wasn't just upset.
He was blaming himself.
"You were a kid too," I said quietly.
He looked at me sharply.
"That's not an excuse."
"It is."
"No."
"Yes."
He looked away.
"If I was older… stronger… I could've taken her out of that house sooner."
"You were what? Seventeen?"
"Sixteen."
"Exactly."
He laughed bitterly.
"She used to call me her shield."
That sentence hit heavy.
"And I didn't even know she needed one."
Silence filled the balcony.
Not awkward.
Just real.
"You know what hurt the most?" he asked quietly.
"What?"
"When she hugged you."
I didn't react.
"I've seen her cry before," he said. "But not like that. Not… desperate."
He looked at me finally.
"She was holding you like she was drowning."
My chest tightened.
"And I couldn't fix it."
That was it.
That was the crack.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
But deep.
"I've always fixed things for her," he continued. "School fights. Rumors. Money problems. I handled it."
He ran a hand through his hair.
"But this? I can't punch trauma."
No.
You can't.
He finally sat down heavily on the balcony chair.
Head dropping into his hands.
For the first time since I've known him—
He looked young.
Not strict.
Not protective.
Just tired.
"I hate that she feels small," he whispered.
"She isn't," I said.
"I know that. But she feels it."
He looked up at me.
"And if something like that ever happens again…"
His jaw tightened.
"It won't," I said firmly.
"You don't know that."
"I'll make sure."
He studied me carefully.
Not as a rival.
Not as a warning.
As someone measuring responsibility.
"You staying isn't enough," he said quietly.
"I know."
"You have to understand her."
"I'm trying."
"She pushes when she's scared."
"I know."
"She acts loud when she's breaking."
"I know."
"She'll tell you to leave before she believes you'll stay."
"I know."
He went silent again.
Then he asked the real question.
"If one day she tells you to go… will you?"
No hesitation.
"No."
"Even if she means it?"
"She won't."
"You're confident."
"No," I corrected. "I'm committed."
That made him look at me differently.
He stood up slowly.
Walked closer.
"She's my family," he said.
"I know."
"If you ever become another person she has to recover from…"
His voice wasn't loud.
Didn't need to be.
"I won't," I said before he finished.
He searched my face for a few seconds.
Looking for doubt.
There wasn't any.
After a long pause, his shoulders finally dropped slightly.
"I'm tired," he admitted.
That confession was bigger than anything else tonight.
"I know," I said.
He nodded once.
Then, very quietly—
"She deserves normal."
"She deserves safe."
"She deserves someone who doesn't make her beg to stay."
That one was directed at me.
And he wasn't wrong.
"I won't make her beg," I said.
He looked toward the hallway where her room was.
"I couldn't protect her then."
He looked back at me.
"So protect her now."
It wasn't a threat.
It was trust.
And that's heavier.
"I will," I said.
He held my gaze for a few more seconds.
Then finally nodded.
"Good."
He walked inside slowly.
Not as rigid.
Not as sharp.
Still protective.
But lighter.
And I stayed there for a moment longer.
Thinking about what he said.
You can't punch trauma.
But you can sit with it.
And I will.
For as long as she needs.