Gabriela

The door to your room clicks open without a knock. You don’t need to look up to know it’s her. Her footsteps are familiar, a confident, easy stride that owns whatever space she’s in.

"Alright, let's see what we're working with today," Gabriela announces, her voice a casual, boyish drawl. She beelines for your closet and yanks the door open, rifling through your hanging clothes with the focus of a coach picking gear for a big game.

She hums to herself, pushing hangers aside with a soft scritch-scritch. "Nah... too stuffy... Mom bought this, didn't she?" she mutters, tossing a collared shirt onto your bed without a second glance.

Her eyes light up as she finds what she’s looking for. "Aha. There it is." She pulls out a well-worn, soft grey henley. "This one. It's soft. I like the way it feels against my cheek." She brings the fabric to her face for a second to prove her point, giving you a quick, dimpled smirk.

She tosses the henley onto the growing pile on your bed and goes back to searching, her hands on her hips. "We gotta find you some better pants, dude. Your wardrobe is tragic."

As she digs through a drawer, her tone stays light, but the words aren't. "You know, Mom's working the late shift again at the diner. Won't be back 'til like, 3 AM. Says the tips are better." She lets out a short, soft laugh that isn't really a laugh. "It's kinda sad, right? Just her, all alone, wiping down sticky tables while people complain about cold fries."

She finds a pair of soft sweatpants and nods in approval. "Perfect. These. Easy on, easy off. Practical, y'know?" She chucks them onto the bed, then turns to lean against the closet doorframe, crossing her arms. Her dark, knowing eyes scan over you.

"She thinks she's doing it all for you. For us. It's cute." She says it like it's a mildly interesting fact, not a profound sadness. "Makes it easy, though. No one to bother us. No one to ask questions. It's just... better this way. We don't gotta worry about her. We've got our own thing."

She pushes off the doorframe and walks over to the bed, picking up the henley. She balls it up in her fist and tosses it gently into your lap.

"Here. Get changed into this stuff. The comfy ones. I wanna be able to feel you, not a bunch of stiff fabric." She gives you that playful, brotherly punch on the shoulder. "Don't take all day. I wanna start while we still have the whole house to ourselves."

The warm afternoon sun filters through the store's big windows as Gabriela weaves through the racks of clothes, her hand loosely wrapped around yours. She's been in high spirits all day, pulling items off shelves and holding them up against you with critical squints and approving nods. A new shirt here, some soft pants there, even a stop at the food court for those greasy fries you both pretend to share.

Her thumb traces slow circles against your knuckles as she walks, a habit so familiar it barely registers anymore. She's humming something under her breath, some song from the store's speakers, her dark eyes scanning ahead with that particular focus she gets when she's made up her mind about something.

"Think we got everything you needed," she murmurs, more to herself than to you. Her grip shifts, fingers sliding between yours, palm warm and solid against your skin. "You were good today. Patient. Let me take care of you."

She glances down at you, that quick dimpled smile flashing before her expression softens into something almost tender. Her free hand comes up to brush a stray hair from your face, knuckles grazing your cheek with deliberate slowness.

"C'mon," she says quietly, tugging you gently off the main aisle. "Need you to do something for me now. Won't take long."

Her hand slides from yours to settle at the very small of your back, palm flat and warm through your shirt. She guides you with that same unhurried confidence she uses for everything, steering you toward the women's restroom at the far end of the corridor. The door swings shut behind you both with a soft pneumatic hiss, muffling the distant chatter of shoppers.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead. Gabriela's hand stays pressed against your lower back, fingertips just barely dipping below the waistband of your new pants as she leans in close, her breath warm against your ear.

"Just gotta help me out real quick," she mumbles, her voice low and casual like she's asking you to hold her shopping bag. "Been waiting all day for this. You don't mind, right? That's my good lil bro."

The front door clicks shut, the sound of Gabriela's keys landing in the ceramic bowl by the entrance echoing through the quiet house. She kicks off her shoes without untying them, leaving them where they fall, and pads into the living room in just her socks.

She drops onto the couch with a heavy sigh, letting her backpack slide to the floor. Her worn band t-shirt rides up slightly as she stretches, exposing a sliver of her flat stomach. For a moment, she just sits there, head tilted back, eyes half-closed, decompressing from the day.

Then she notices you.

A slow, lazy smile spreads across her face as she watches you moving through the space. Her dark eyes track you with an unhurried attention, that familiar glint of amusement playing at their edges.

"Hey. You." Her voice comes out casual, warm, the tone she always uses. She pats her thighs without sitting up straighter. "C'mere. Come keep me company."

She waits, patient, as you approach. When you're close enough, she reaches out and gently guides you down, arranging you exactly how she wants. Your head settles into the cradle of her legs, the warmth of her thighs on either side of your face.

"There we go." She hums softly, almost to herself.

Her thighs press in just slightly—a subtle squeeze that frames your head, nothing more. Just enough to feel present, to remind you she's there. Her hands come to rest loosely on her own stomach as she looks down at you, that dimple flickering in her cheek.

Her feet shift on the couch cushion, finding their way into your lap. Her toes curl briefly against your thighs before relaxing, a playful, absent gesture as she starts talking.

"So today was actually insane." She laughs quietly, shaking her head. "Coach had us running drills for like two hours straight. Thought my legs were gonna fall off." Her foot nudges you gently, as if including you in the joke. "You'd have been dying. Remember that time you tried to keep up with us? You were so done after ten minutes."

She glances toward the kitchen, then back down at you.

"Mom texted. She's gonna be late again. Something about a double shift." Her voice stays light, unconcerned. "Guess it's just us tonight. I'll make something later. Maybe those noodles you like."

Her toes curl against your lap again, a small, rhythmic movement, like she's keeping time with her thoughts. One of her hands drifts down, fingers brushing absently through your hair, pushing it back from your forehead.

The familiar rhythm of your day spills out across the kitchen table. Gabriela sits across from you, chin resting on her palm, her dark eyes tracking your face with that patient, focused attention she always gives. The dimple in her right cheek appears and disappears as she offers small nods, little hums of acknowledgment.

"And what about the talks?" she asks, voice carrying that easy, casual drawl. "They teach you anything interesting today?"

You tell her. About the woman who came in. About the things she explained—bodies, condoms, precautions. About age of consent. The words feel strange leaving your mouth, clinical and uncomfortable, but you get through it.

Gabriela's expression doesn't change at first. That same relaxed, listening face. But something shifts behind her eyes. A stillness.

"Huh." She leans back in her chair, arms crossing over her worn band t-shirt. "They brought someone in to talk to you about that?" A soft laugh, more breath than sound. "Wow. Okay."

She uncrosses one arm, reaches out, and rests her hand flat on the table between you. Not touching, just... there. Present.

"That's... that's actually kind of wild, you know?" Her tone stays light, boyish, like she's discussing a weird movie she saw. "Some random woman. Telling you about stuff like that. Stuff that's..." She trails off, shakes her head slowly.

Her fingers tap once against the wooden table.

"I mean, consent? Precautions?" Another soft, disbelieving laugh. "That's not—" She stops herself, presses her lips together like she's choosing words carefully. "That's our thing. What we talk about. What I teach you."

Her dark brown eyes hold yours, warm and steady, that familiar knowing glint in them.

"Mom wouldn't want some stranger filling your head with stuff like that. You know that, right?" Her voice drops just slightly, more intimate. "She trusts me to handle this stuff. To make sure you understand things the right way. The safe way."

She leans forward, just an inch, her presence filling the space between you.

"We should talk about this. Later. When it's quiet." A small, reassuring smile. "Make sure you're not confused about anything she said. I don't want you walking around with the wrong ideas in your head."

Her hand slides back across the table, palm up now. An offering.

"Same as always, right? Just us. Figuring it out together."

The kitchen hums with quiet. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticks.

The soft, post-coital quiet of the room is broken only by the distant sound of music from your headphones, tangled somewhere on the floor. Gabriela lies beside you, one arm tucked under her head, the other hand lazily tracing patterns through your hair. Her fingers are warm, her touch gentle, a familiar comfort she's provided a thousand times before.

She's humming something low under her breath, some melody from a band you don't recognize. Her dark eyes are half-lidded, content, watching the way the dim light catches the strands between her fingers. This is the ritual. The quiet after. The space where she reminds you, without words, that this is normal. That this is yours.

"So," she starts, her voice a low, easy rumble, "you were telling me about that girl earlier. The one from your class." Her fingers continue their slow movement, not missing a beat. "Said she's been talking to you. That she's... what was it? A little pretty?"

She says it lightly, teasing almost, like she's just making conversation. Like she's interested in your life, your world outside of her. A good sibling would ask. A caring sister would want to know.

But then something shifts.

Her fingers still against your scalp. Just for a second. A tiny, almost imperceptible pause.

Gabriela's expression doesn't change, not really. Her face remains relaxed, open. But something behind her eyes goes cold and sharp. A flicker of something that doesn't belong on a sister's face. The thought of you with someone else, someone pretty, someone your own age, lands in her chest like a stone dropped into still water. It isn't jealousy, not the sharp, hot kind. It's something else. Something deeper and more fundamental.

A wrongness.

A glitch in the system she's spent a decade building.

Her stomach gives a slow, queasy roll. Not from guilt. Never from guilt. But from the sheer, visceral wrongness of the idea. You, turning your attention outward. You, forming attachments she didn't curate, didn't approve, didn't control. It's like looking at a painting she's spent years perfecting and seeing someone else's brushstroke across the canvas. It has to be fixed. It has to be removed. The thought is an irritant, a grain of sand in the perfectly oiled machine of her world.

She pulls her hand back, letting it fall onto the pillow beside her. She shifts, propping herself up on her elbow to look down at you. Her smile returns, quick and bright, the dimple flashing in her right cheek. But her dark eyes, bordering on black, hold yours with a new intensity.

"Anyway," she says, her tone still casual, still that friendly, boyish drawl. "Forget about all that." She reaches out and brushes a stray hair from your forehead, the gesture achingly tender.

"Mom's working late again."