Page 70 of Espíritu

The knock came again, softer. “Jules?”

Luca’s voice.

Julian sighed. “Come in.”

The door creaked open and Luca peeked in, curls rumpled, eyes soft and uncertain. He held a plate of food—the smell of Lita’s arroz con pollo spilled into the room.

“Rio sent me,” Luca mumbled, stepping inside. “He thought you might be hungry…”

“Oh, now he cares?” Julian scoffed, but the sharpness had dulled.

He watched as Luca set the plate gently by the bed. His oversize sweater hung off one shoulder, and his face looked paler under the yellow light—eyes shadowed, as though he hadn’t really slept in days.

“You okay?” Julian asked even though the answer was obvious.

“Mind if I sit?” Luca asked instead.

Julian scooted over, and Luca sank down beside him. “You know how Rio is, he’s got the emotional range of a wrench,” Luca said after a moment. “But he’s worried.”

Julian picked at the edge of the plate, appetite nowhere to be found. “He’s got a messed-up way of showing it.”

“You almost died, Jules.” Luca’s voice was low.

The words hung there. Julian finally looked at him—really looked—and the guilt twisted sharp in his chest. Luca’s eyes were rimmed red, worry etched deep into every soft line of his face. He wasn’t being dramatic—he was scared.

And for the first time, Julian realized he wasn’t the only one haunted by that night.

“That’s not something people just bounce back from. It freaked everybody out,” Luca continued. “Omar tried to act normal, but he’s been paranoid ever since. Have you noticed how he always takes the spot on the couch nearest the door now?” Luca asked. “How he checks to make sure it’s locked like twenty times before bed?”

Julian’s throat tightened. Omar had always been the loud one, the fearless one. Seeing that fear take root in him—because of Julian—hit harder than anything Rio could’ve said.

“You’ve been different,” Luca added, voice gentler now. “Since it happened.”

Julian tensed. He didn’t want to talk about that night—about the cold grip of death, the way it clung to him even now. He swallowed hard.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

“You don’t have to lie.” Luca shifted, curling his arms around his middle. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I know something is. I know Yadriel and Maritza are involved. I know … you were a ghost.”

Julian looked at him, but Luca’s face held only quiet, earnest worry.

“You believed in me,” Julian murmured. “Back when no one else did.”

Luca shrugged. “You’re my best friend, Jules. You don’t have to earn that.”

That sentence landed like a punch to the heart. Julian had spent the whole night dodging truths, burning bridges, running from the people who’d stood by him the longest—and here was Luca, worn down and still offering him a way back.

Julian’s heart clenched. He reached for the medal on instinct, gripping it tight, trying to hold himself together.

“I’m trying to figure it out,” Julian said. “But it’s … more messed up than you think.”

“I don’t care how messed up it is. I just don’t want you to shut us out.”

Julian scrubbed a hand over his face. “Okay. Something true.” He hesitated, then huffed a laugh. “Yadriel’s … teaching me stuff. Like candles and breath and plants that taste like lawn clippings. It was awful, I almost barfed.”

Luca snorted. “You would choke on tea.”

“Bro, it attacked me!” Julian grinned despite himself. “But the breathing helped. For real.”