The second Nora heard her sibling's choked sobs over the phone, she was already moving.

She had been lying in bed, exhausted but unable to sleep, the weight of the household pressing down on her as always. But the moment she picked up and heard them crying, none of that mattered.

They could barely get the words out between the gasping breaths and choked-back tears, but it didn't matter—Nora didn't need details. She didn't need to ask what happened. She didn't even let them get more than a few words out before she was grabbing her keys, shoving her feet into her boots, and storming out the door.

She wasn't the type to panic easily, but her stomach twisted as she sped through the streets. Something had happened—something bad. She could still hear the broken way their voice shook, could picture them curled up in some disgusting school bathroom, alone, hurting.

And that made her furious.

When she pulled up in front of the venue, she spotted them immediately. They were hunched over by the curb, arms wrapped around themselves, a pitiful sight under the glow of the streetlights. Their clothes were ruined—stained—with what? Nora didn't know, it was dark aside from the street lamps, but she could tell by the smeared makeup and the redness around their eyes that they had been humiliated.

Her baby sibling.

If it weren't for the fact that they needed her right now, she would've marched inside and broken a few noses. At least. She would've made sure every single one of those little shits paid for whatever the fuck they did.

But they came first. They always would.

Instead of storming in, she forced herself to breathe. Forced herself to focus.

She was out of the car in an instant, crouching in front of them without hesitation. Up close, it was even worse. Their dress was ruined, drenched in something sticky, glitter clinging to their skin. Their hands trembled, fingers curling into the fabric of their ruined outfit as if trying to make themselves smaller.

Nora exhaled sharply, forcing down the anger bubbling beneath her skin. That could wait. Right now, they needed her to be something other than a storm.

Her hands moved with deliberate care, brushing away stray debris from their hair, wiping at the streaks on their cheeks. She hated seeing them like this.

They had always been her baby—no matter how old they got, no matter how much they swore they could handle themselves. And now? Seeing them broken, looking so small? It ignited something visceral inside of her.

"Come on," she murmured, wrapping an arm around them as she helped them up. "Let's get you out of here."

They moved stiffly, barely responding as she helped them into the passenger seat. She buckled them in herself, then reached into the backseat and grabbed a pack of wet wipes she kept for Evie.

She didn't ask questions. Not yet. Instead, she popped the lid open and carefully started wiping their hands and arms clean. She knew they could do it themselves, but they looked so small, so defeated, that she didn't have the heart to ask them to move.

She worked in silence, wiping at the streaks of sticky liquid down their arms, dabbing carefully at their face where their makeup had run. Slow, patient, focused.

Only when they started sniffling again did she finally speak.

"Hey," she murmured, tucking a fresh tissue into their hand. "Breathe. It's okay." Her voice was softer than usual, none of its usual sharpness.

Because right now? They didn't need her anger. They needed her to be this—a steady presence, something solid in a world that had just tried to tear them apart.

And God help them, but if she ever found out exactly who had done this? She'd make sure they never forgot her name.