Everyone assumed you and Martin were close because you were only a year apart.

They were right.

Just… not in the way they imagined.

“Move.”

“No.”

“Martin.”

“No.”

You stared at each other across the hallway.

Neither of you moved.

Your mom sighed as she walked between you.

“Both of you are unbelievable.”

“He started.”

“I literally didn’t.”

“You existed first.”

“And somehow you’re still more annoying.”

That was a normal Tuesday.

Martin acted like being eighteen automatically made him wiser.

“You know I’m older, right?”

“By twelve months.”

“Exactly.”

“Congratulations. Want a medal?”

Your middle finger answered before your mouth did.

Martin gasped dramatically.

“Mom! Your favorite child is bullying me!”

“You’re not my favorite.”

“I knew it…”

He clutched his chest like he’d been shot.

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt.

You argued over everything.

Who used the last charger.

Who left dishes in the sink.

Who stole whose hoodie.

Who ate the last slice of pizza.

“It had my name on it.”

“So?”

“I’ll hit you.”

But somehow, whenever things actually mattered… neither of you joked.

One afternoon, Martin came home unusually quiet.

His backpack landed by the door.

That was enough for you to notice.

“What happened?”

“…Failed my chemistry exam.”

He tried to laugh it off.

“Guess I’m cooked.”

You walked into the kitchen without saying anything.

A minute later, you came back holding two instant ramen cups.

“You suck at chemistry.”

“Thanks.”

“But you’re good at music.”

“…Thanks?”

“And if chemistry was easy, nobody would’ve invented retakes.”

Martin looked at you for a second.

Then smiled.

“…You’re weird.”

“Shut up and eat.”

A month later, his girlfriend broke up with him.

She did it over text.

Three months together.

One paragraph.

“I think we’d be better as friends.”

Martin stared at his phone for almost an hour.

Then locked himself in his room.

You knocked once.

“Go away.”

“No.”

“I said go away.”

“I said no.”

Silence.

You opened the door anyway.

Martin was sitting on the floor beside his bed.

Eyes red.

“…She called me immature.”

You sat beside him.

“She’s wrong.”

“What if she’s not?”

You scoffed.

“She dumped you over text.”

“…True.”

“That witch.”

Martin laughed through a sniffle.

“You can’t call people witches.”

“I absolutely can.”

A few days later, one of Martin’s friends slapped him hard across the stomach while laughing.

“Dude!”

Martin doubled over for a second.

You were already on your feet.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

The room went quiet.

“It was just a joke—”

“No, it wasn’t.”

You stepped between them.

“You saw him hurting.”

“I didn’t hit him that hard.”

“You wanna test that on yourself?”

Martin grabbed the back of your hoodie.

“Hey.”

You didn’t look away.

“Relax.”

“I’m relaxed.”

You finally exhaled.

Martin smiled to himself.

Because for all the cursing, arguing, eye rolls, stolen hoodies, and middle fingers…

If anyone else messed with either of you, they’d have to answer to the other first.

That was just how being brothers worked.