Mason leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed tightly, his jaw clenched as he replayed the events of the day. Ethan had been in Emma’s room—_Emma’s room._ It didn’t matter what excuse they’d both given; something about it felt wrong. His sister, at twelve years old, didn’t need to be letting guys into her space, even if it was Ethan.

When Emma walked into the kitchen carrying her sketchpad and pens, Mason’s frustration boiled over. “Emma,” he said sharply, his voice cutting through the quiet.

She froze, her brow furrowing. “What?”

“We need to talk,” Mason said, nodding toward the dining table.

Emma hesitated but sat down, clutching her sketchpad against her chest. “About what?” she asked, her tone defensive.

Mason sat across from her, his eyes narrowing. “About Ethan. About you letting guys into your room like it’s no big deal.”

Her face twisted with confusion and annoyance. “Why does it matter? He’s your friend.”

“Exactly. He’s my friend, not yours,” Mason shot back, his voice firm. “You don’t know him like I do.”

Emma blinked, stunned. “What’s that supposed to mean? I thought you trusted him.”

“I do,” Mason said quickly, though the words felt heavy in his mouth. “But trust me, guys think differently than girls do. You can’t just let them in your room and assume everything’s fine.”

Her jaw tightened. “Ethan isn’t like that.”

“You don’t know that,” Mason said, his voice rising. “You’re twelve, Emma. You don’t understand how guys operate. They’ll pretend to be interested in your little hobbies, act all nice, but it’s just to get close to you.”

Emma flinched at the harshness of his words, her grip on her sketchpad tightening. “That’s not fair. Ethan’s not pretending. He actually likes my comics.”

Mason scoffed. “Yeah, sure he does. Because he’s trying to be nice. You really think some sixteen-year-old guy cares about your little stories? Come on, Emma.”

Her lips parted, her expression falling. For a moment, she didn’t say anything, and Mason felt a pang of guilt, but he didn’t let it show. He had to be firm. This was about protecting her, not sparing her feelings.

---

Emma felt her chest tighten as Mason’s words sank in. “You really think that, don’t you?” she said, her voice trembling. “You think my comics are stupid.”

“I didn’t say that,” Mason muttered, avoiding her gaze.

“You didn’t have to!” she snapped, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “You don’t care about them, just like no one else does.”

“That’s not the point,” Mason said, exasperated. “The point is that you can’t just trust any guy who’s nice to you. You’re too young to understand how dangerous that is.”

Emma’s shoulders stiffened. “I’m not stupid, Mason. I can tell when someone’s being fake.”

Mason rolled his eyes. “Really? Because it doesn’t sound like it. You’re acting like Ethan’s some saint just because he humored you for an afternoon.”

“He’s the only one who’s ever humored me,” Emma shot back, her voice breaking. “My friends don’t care. They laugh at me when I try to talk about my comics. I thought maybe you’d understand, but you just think it’s all a joke too.”

Mason didn’t respond immediately. He leaned back in his chair, his expression cold and unreadable. “Look, Emma, I’m your brother. It’s my job to keep you safe, not to coddle you. I’m just telling you how it is.”

Emma stared at him, her hands trembling as she hugged her sketchpad closer. “You don’t even care about me, do you?” she whispered. “You just want to control me.”

Mason’s face hardened. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is!” Emma stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “You don’t care about what I like or how I feel. You just want to make sure no one else gets close to me.”

“That’s not—” Mason started, but she didn’t let him finish.

“I thought you’d at least trust Ethan, but you don’t even trust your own friend,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “And you clearly don’t trust me.”

Mason opened his mouth to respond, but she didn’t wait. She turned and stormed out of the kitchen, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

---

Mason stayed at the table long after Emma left, staring at the grain of the wood as his anger began to fade. In its place, doubt crept in, gnawing at the edges of his resolve. He’d done what he thought was right—what he _knew_ was right. Emma didn’t understand how guys worked, and he wasn’t going to sit back and let her get hurt because she trusted the wrong person.

But still, her words echoed in his mind. _You just want to control me._ Was that how she saw him? As some overbearing, uncaring brother who didn’t give a damn about her? That wasn’t true. He cared—he cared enough to step in when she couldn’t see the bigger picture.

_You don’t even trust your own friend._

That part stung the most. He hated to admit it, but Emma wasn’t wrong. A small part of him didn’t trust Ethan. He wanted to—Ethan had been his best friend since they were kids—but seeing him with Emma today had stirred something protective and paranoid inside him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, even if there wasn’t any real evidence to back it up.

Mason sighed, rubbing his temples. Maybe he’d been too harsh. But if being harsh kept Emma safe, wasn’t it worth it? He told himself he didn’t need to worry about her feelings as long as she stayed out of trouble.

But despite his certainty, the nagging doubt wouldn’t go away.

In her room, Emma sat cross-legged on her bed, her sketchpad lying open in front of her. The page was blank, her pencil hovering uselessly above it. Her mind was too clouded with anger to focus on drawing. Mason’s words replayed in her head like a broken record: _You can’t just trust any guy. He’s just humoring you. Your comics are a joke._

Her grip on the pencil tightened. _He doesn’t get it,_ she thought bitterly. _He never has._ Mason acted like he was protecting her, but all he ever did was shut her down. He didn’t care about her stories, her ideas, or how much effort she poured into her comics. To him, they were just “little hobbies,” something childish that didn’t matter.

She glanced over at her sketchpad, remembering the way Ethan had looked at it earlier, his face lighting up with genuine interest. He hadn’t laughed or dismissed it; he’d asked questions, made jokes, and even drawn that goofy stick figure. The thought brought a small, fleeting smile to her lips.

_Ethan liked my comic. He said it was awesome._

That single memory helped her push back against the wave of doubt Mason had planted in her. Sure, she sometimes felt insecure about her work—was it good enough? Did her characters seem too simple? Did her stories even make sense?—but Ethan hadn’t hesitated to tell her how much he liked it. That had to mean something, right?

Still, Mason’s accusations lingered. _You’re too young to understand. Guys will pretend to care just to get close to you._

She frowned, her pencil tapping against the paper. Mason didn’t think she could tell the difference between someone who genuinely cared and someone who didn’t. But she wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t some clueless little girl who couldn’t recognize when someone was being fake. Ethan didn’t feel fake. He didn’t look at her like she was some dumb kid, and he’d been kind when no one else cared to listen.

Emma sighed, setting her pencil down and pulling her knees to her chest. What hurt the most was Mason’s lack of trust. He didn’t trust Ethan, sure, but he didn’t trust _her_ either. He didn’t think she was smart enough to make her own decisions, to protect herself, or to see through someone’s intentions. All he wanted was to control her, to keep her locked away from the world.

_But I’m not going to let him control me,_ she thought fiercely. _I’m not stupid. I can make my own choices._

The thought of talking to Ethan again crossed her mind. She hesitated, uncertainty creeping in. Would it make things worse with Mason? What if Ethan thought she was being clingy or weird? But then she remembered the way he’d smiled when she explained her story, the way he’d said her work was “next-level creative.” He didn’t seem like the kind of person to mock her or judge her.

She picked up her phone, staring at the Instagram notification where Ethan had followed her earlier. Her thumb hovered over his profile picture for a moment before she locked her screen and set the phone aside.

_Not yet,_ she decided. She’d talk to him eventually, but on her own terms. For now, she just needed to focus on what mattered: her stories, her art, and proving to herself that she didn’t need Mason’s approval to keep doing what she loved.

Her pencil touched the paper again, the beginnings of a new sketch forming beneath her hand. A girl in armor, standing defiantly against a shadowy figure looming over her.