Page 128 of Espíritu

“Luca?” she asked gently, brushing his sleeve. “Are you okay? Say something.”

Luca looked at her. Then nodded once, very slowly. “I’m okay,” he said, voice low and hoarse. It didn’t sound like him.

“You scared the hell out of us,” Flaca said, pulling a blanket tighter around herself. “You both did.”

“What happened?” Omar asked, standing up.

Julian ignored the chill of his damp shirt clinging to his back. “It’s … a long story.”

Omar scowled. His eyes flicked from Julian to Luca and back again. “Was it Angel? Did she do something to him?”

Julian hesitated. “We had a falling-out,” he said vaguely. “She’s not coming around anymore. Just—if you see her, tell Rio. Don’t talk to her.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Damn,” Omar muttered, rubbing his face. “That bad?”

Rio stood behind them, arms crossed. He studied Julian, then Luca, then back again. Julian braced for a lecture.

But instead, Rio just let out a slow breath and nodded.

“Is he okay?”

“He just needs rest,” Julian said quickly.

Rio gave another small nod and, out of habit, checked the dead bolt and the chain.

“All right,” Rio said, rubbing his face. “I’m gonna crash for a few hours. You should, too. You all look like shit.”

Julian huffed a breath.

Rio turned to Flaca, who was still hovering protectively near Luca. “Keep an eye on him?” he asked, softer now.

Flaca nodded. “Of course.”

“Wake me if anything weird happens,” Rio added, glancing at Julian as he retreated toward the bedroom.

The room loosened a notch, but Julian kept his eyes on Luca. Damp hair, that faraway stare.

Julian gently steered Luca toward the bathroom, grabbing clean clothes for him. “Take a hot shower,” he said, keeping it light. “Warm up. You’ll feel better.”

Luca nodded again, no argument, no joke, and moved down the hall like someone walking through a dream. The bathroom door clicked shut. A beat later, the pipes groaned and water rushed on. Steam curled under the door.

Julian stood in the hallway for a long moment, listening. Just listening.

He made himself take one slow breath.

“Are you okay?” Flaca asked, watching him from the couch. “You look … bad.”

“I’m fine,” Julian lied. “We’re just tired.”

“Yeah,” Rocky said, yawning. “Same.”

Omar was already flopping back onto the couch, muttering something about “finally,” and Rocky followed suit. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by the kind of bone-deep fatigue that didn’t care how weird things felt. Flaca lingered for a second, looking between them, before curling up in her blanket again, eyes still half open as if she were trying to keep watch.

The sound of the shower was a strange kind of comfort—steady, predictable, familiar. But Julian couldn’t shake the unease prickling under his skin.

He stood just outside the bathroom, leaning against the wall and fidgeting with the hem of his damp shirt. The adrenaline might have worn off, but the chill hadn’t. Not from the night, or the water. From what had almost happened. From how close they’d come to losing Luca.