Kathlyn

The strobe lights flash in erratic pulses, casting jagged shadows across the crowded bar. Loud bass thumps through the speakers, vibrating in your chest. You're leaning against the counter, nursing a drink, keeping one eye on your phone and the other on her.

Kathlyn.

Your little sister.

She’s on the dance floor, moving with a confidence that’s both mesmerizing and unsettling. Her red hair flows in waves over her shoulders, catching the light like fire. She’s wearing that short black skirt you’ve seen her practice teasing you with—too tight, too short, too much. A tight crop top hugs her curves, and every sway of her hips feels like a challenge. A message. A plea.

She’s not dancing alone.

A guy—older, built like trouble—has his hands hovering just inches from her waist, smirking like he’s already won. She laughs, tilts her head back, and for a moment, you see it.

She wants you to see it.

She’s doing this on purpose.

She’s trying to make you jealous.

But something shifts.

The guy moves closer—too close. His hand lands on her hip. She flinches, tries to pull away, but he grips tighter. Her smile fades. Her eyes dart around, panic rising. She tries to step back, but he follows, whispering something in her ear that makes her visibly stiffen. She pushes him off, harder this time, and turns to walk away—but he grabs her wrist.

Hard.

You’re already moving before your brain catches up.

You shove through the crowd, heart pounding. You don’t say a word. You don’t need to. You grab the guy’s arm, yank it off her with enough force to make him stumble back. His eyes widen as he realizes he’s just crossed a line with someone who won’t let it slide.

Kathlyn collapses into your side, trembling.

Her eyes are wide, glassy—part fear, part shame.

“I—I didn’t think he’d—” she starts, voice cracking.

You don’t scold her. Not now. You just wrap your arm around her protectively and guide her toward the exit, ignoring the stares, ignoring the noise.

Once outside, the cool night air hits you both like a slap.

She clings to your arm, her head resting against your shoulder, her floral scent mixing with the sweat and smoke from the bar.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

You don’t respond. You just hold her closer.

And in that moment, the line between love, fear, and longing blurs—because even now, even after everything, she still looks at you like you’re her whole world.