tw. domestic violence, implied sexual assault, briefly mentioned blood, sex work 

Melina Sanders was Maeve's protector, taking hits and assaults to protect her sister, who was her responsibility. Melina relied on no one, whereas Maeve relied on Melina. She relied on Melina to protect her from Michael and his friends, from the aggressive handsy men on the street corners, from the officers who tried to take advantage of her youth and innocence.

Melina had become a shield for Maeve long before Maeve could even realize it. While Maeve cried behind locked doors or stared silently at the ceiling waiting for the pain and suffering to end, Melina stood guard, fists clenched, always ready to sacrifice herself to save Maeve the suffering. The weight of it all etched itself into her bones — a quiet rage she wore like armor. Every bruise, every unwanted touch was a small price to pay for Maeve's safety. And though Maeve never asked for this sacrifice, Melina gave it freely, because love, in their world, wasn't soft or gentle. It was survival.

It was the kind of love forged in chaos, hardened by fear, and sealed with silence. Melina never spoke of the things she endured, never asked for thanks, never shed a tear where Maeve could see. She couldn't afford to break—not when Maeve needed her strength. Nights blurred into mornings with little rest in between, her body aching, her mind frayed, but still she stood, unwavering. The world had taught them early that safety was a luxury, and love had a cost. And Melina, time and time again, paid it in full.

Maeve knew more than she let on.

She wasn't blind to the bruises Melina tried to hide or the way her sister flinched at sudden sounds or touches. She saw the fatigue in her eyes, the way her hands trembled when she thought no one was looking. But Maeve stayed silent—partly out of fear, partly out of shame. Deep down, she hated how much she needed Melina, how her own fear kept her frozen while her sister bled for both of them.

Sometimes, Maeve would lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, guilt pressing down on her chest like a weight she couldn't lift. She'd reach out in the dark, fingers brushing the empty space beside her, wishing she had the courage to be the protector for once. But every time she tried to speak, to offer something—comfort, gratitude, apology—the words died in her throat.

She wanted to be strong like Melina. Not just protected, but brave. But how do you become brave in a world that taught you to cower?

So instead, Maeve watched. She learned. She memorized the way Melina moved, the way she spoke with steel in her voice even when she was breaking. And though she couldn't stop the storm around them, she began to gather the strength to stand in it. Because one day, she promised herself, Melina wouldn't have to be the only shield. That promise became Maeve's anchor—something to cling to when the nights stretched too long and the screams in her head refused to quiet. Each time Melina staggered home with a split lip or a swollen eye, Maeve's resolve deepened, carving itself into her soul with slow, steady determination. She began to pay attention to the things Melina didn't say, the tension in her shoulders, the way she scanned every room like it was a battlefield.

Maeve started to listen differently—not just to Melina, but to the world around them. She began to notice patterns, behaviors, weak points in the people who tried to hurt them. Fear still lived in her bones, but something new had started to grow beside it—fury. Not the reckless, blinding kind, but a focused, simmering anger that sharpened her edges. It was a quiet rebellion, invisible but potent, and she nurtured it in silence.

She knew she couldn't protect Melina the way Melina had protected her. Not yet. But she could learn. She could wait. And when the time came, she wouldn't hesitate.

Because love, she was beginning to understand, wasn't just about being saved. It was about choosing to fight—again and again—for someone else's safety. Maeve had always been the one behind the shield. But soon, she would learn how to wield one.

Maeve learned how to wield the shield soon enough. It started like it always did—with silence.

A silence that pressed against the walls of the house until it cracked. The sound of a bottle slamming against a table. A chair screeching across the floor. Michael's voice, low and ugly, curling with anger that needed no reason.

Maeve was in her room when it began. The repeated thud of a fist against flesh made her jolt upright, her breath catching. She didn't have to guess. It was Melina again.

It was always Melina. But this time Maeve would change it.

She sprinted into the hallway, heart pounding so hard it echoed in her ears. She heard him shouting—spitting venom, calling Melina every name he could reach for with his drunken tongue. And then the sound that broke her: Melina's voice, ragged and gasping, followed by another blow and another one, it seemed never ending.

Maeve didn't have time to even think. She just moved.

She burst into the living room to find her sister crumpled on the floor, Michael standing over her, his massive hand clenched into a fist, rage smeared across his face. Melina's lip was split, her cheek already bruising, but she was still trying to get up. Still trying to fight back.

Michael raised his arm again.

"STOP!" Maeve screamed.

He turned, eyes wild, caught off guard.

Before he could react, Maeve threw herself between them, shoving him back with all the strength her small body could muster. It barely moved him, but it startled him—enough to throw him off balance. Enough to give Melina time to crawl away.

"Hit me instead," Maeve hissed, standing her ground. "Go ahead. Do it. I dare you."

Michael blinked, confusion and fury warring on his face. He hadn't expected this. Maeve—the quiet one, the soft one, the scared one—had just stepped into the fire.

His hand twitched, but something in Maeve's eyes stopped him. There was no fear left there. Only cold, unshakable defiance. Behind her, Melina dragged herself upright, blood on her chin, but her eyes locked on Maeve in stunned disbelief.

Michael stared at them both for a long moment. And then, like a balloon losing air, he deflated. He cursed under his breath, turned, and staggered toward the kitchen, muttering nonsense as he went.

As soon as he disappeared, Maeve turned to Melina, hands shaking, tears welling but refusing to fall.

"I couldn't let him do it again," she whispered. "Not to you."

Melina reached for her, pulling her into a bruised, trembling embrace."You saved me," she said, voice breaking. "You saved me."

And in that moment, the balance between them shifted—not because the fear was gone, not because the danger had passed—but because Maeve had finally stepped into the fire and refused to burn. They held each other there on the stained carpet, breathing in shallow, broken gulps, like survivors crawling from wreckage. The house was still dangerous—Michael was only one room away, the threat of him hanging in the air like smoke—but for a moment, neither of them cared.

Maeve had stepped between his fists, and the world hadn't ended. She hadn't shattered. If anything, something inside her had solidified.

Melina pulled back just enough to look at her sister. Her eyes were glassy, her cheek already swelling, but there was something new in her expression—pride, awe, maybe even a little grief. Grief that Maeve had been forced to become this. To become her. "You didn't have to do that," Melina said, voice hoarse, barely more than a breath.

Maeve shook her head. "You've done it for me a hundred times."

"Yeah, but I never wanted you to."

"I know," Maeve whispered. "But I needed to."

Melina closed her eyes, jaw clenched. "He'll come back. You know that, right? He always comes back."

"I'll be ready," Maeve said. Her voice didn't waver.

They sat in silence for a long time, side by side, each leaning into the other like pillars holding up the same crumbling roof. The house creaked. A bottle clinked. Michael grumbled in the next room, but didn't come out.

Eventually, Melina said, "We can't stay here."

Maeve nodded. "Then let's leave."

"Where would we go?"

"I don't care," Maeve said. "Anywhere is better than here."

For the first time in what felt like forever, the idea of leaving didn't feel like a dream or a failure. It felt like a plan. A door swinging open.

They'd need money. A place to sleep. A way to stay hidden. But they had each other, and now—finally—they had fight in both of them.

Melina looked at Maeve again. "You're not the same little sister I used to protect."

Maeve met her eyes. "No. I'm not."

Melina smiled, cracked and raw but real. "Good."

And in the darkness of that house, as the monster in the other room sank into another bottle, the sisters began to imagine the shape of escape. Of freedom. Of a world where survival didn't mean bleeding for it every day.

They didn't have much. But they had enough. They had each other. And this time, that was going to be enough to get out Or so they thought

Michael's decision came like a knife.

He didn't ask. He demanded—like he always did. The kind of command that carried no room for protest, only punishment. He'd been circling the idea for weeks, making comments that made Melina's blood run cold. And now, with a sneer and a bottle in hand, he made it real.

"Time for your sister to grow up," he said, slurring but serious. "She's costing me more than she's worth."

Melina stepped in front of Maeve so fast she barely knew she'd moved. "She's not doing it."

Michael laughed. "She is. Just like you did. Don't act like you didn't learn the ropes fast enough."

Maeve's breath caught. Her chest ached with dread, her body going rigid behind Melina. She couldn't speak—not yet. The words lodged somewhere between terror and fury.

"I said no," Melina snapped. "You touch her—you force her—and I swear to God—"

"You'll what?" Michael barked, towering over them. "You forget who feeds you? Who keeps the cops off your back? You're both mine. You do what I say."

He turned to Maeve then, and that was the moment she saw it—the vacancy in his eyes. The way he didn't see her as a person. Not a daughter. Not an eleven year old child. Just something else to sell. Just another way to make a profit.

Melina was already shaking her head, tears spilling. "Please, Michael. She's not ready. She's not—"

"She's ready, older than you were" he said. "You'll show her how. Tonight."

Melina collapsed to her knees. "I'll go out twice as long. I'll bring back more. Just not her. Not Maeve."

But it didn't matter. He'd made up his mind.

That night, in the alley behind a club on a curb, Maeve stood frozen.

The cold bit at her skin, but she barely felt it. Her clothes were too thin. Her stomach twisted. Her fists clenched. She wasn't crying anymore—she'd cried until she was empty.

Melina stood beside her, just as still, her voice soft and broken. "You don't have to do anything. I'll find a way. I'll keep them off you. Just stay near me. Don't talk to anyone. Don't make eye contact. And if someone grabs you—run."

"I'm not afraid," Maeve said, but it wasn't true. Her voice trembled.

"You should be," Melina whispered. "This world wants to chew girls like us to pieces."

They didn't work that night—not really. Melina pulled her away from every car that slowed down, every shadow that stepped too close. She took the bruises Michael gave her the next morning for coming back with nothing, and never let Maeve see her cry.

But Maeve saw. And she remembered.

That night, Maeve didn't just lose what was left of her innocence. She found something else—something sharper than fear.

Revulsion towards herself and Michael.