Chapter Eleven. Julian
ELEVEN
JULIAN
The Christmas lights in the living room flickered faintly as Julian pushed through the door.
“There you are,” Omar called from inside.
“Hey,” Julian called back, forcing a smile as he entered the living room where their makeshift family had gathered.
Luca was curled on the couch, swallowed by an oversize sweater, shadows under his eyes. Rocky sat on the floor with her controller, game paused. Flaca perched on the armrest beside Omar, blowing lightly on fresh plum nail polish.
“Where’ve you been, dude?” Luca asked. His voice was casual, but his eyes were wary. Julian noticed the slight tremble in his hands as he adjusted the blanket over his legs. That wasn’t normal.
Julian opened his mouth, but then Rio stepped in behind him, arms crossed like a locked gate.
“Out,” Julian answered, too quickly. His eyes flicked toward Rio without thinking.
Rocky raised an eyebrow. “We were kinda worried,” she said gently. “You weren’t answering.”
Omar let out a slow exhale and set his controller aside. “Yeah. You’ve been … hard to keep track of lately.” He wasn’t accusing—just stating the obvious.
Flaca glanced up from her nails. “We just want to know you’re okay,” she said. No edge, no bite. Just concern.
Julian flinched anyway. The guilt pressed on him like a hand over his sternum.
They weren’t angry—which, somehow, made everything worse. It meant they were trying. And he was still lying.
“I’m fine,” he said, but the words tasted thin.
Omar nodded once, lips pressed together. “Okay. Just … talk to us next time, yeah? Doesn’t have to be a whole thing.”
Rocky added under her breath, “We’re not trying to trap you, Jules.” She rubbed her shoulder, awkward, like she wasn’t sure if she should say more. “We just—miss you.”
Flaca murmured, “You’ve felt kinda far away.”
That one hit the deepest.
They were his people—his family—and he was drifting so far he could barely see the shore.
Julian’s throat tightened. He turned instinctively toward Luca—the only one here who knew even a sliver of the truth.
“I’m sorry I’ve been … weird,” Julian said quietly.
“I’m not trying to shut you out. I just…
” He trailed off. He couldn’t explain, not without breaking a dozen promises to Yadriel.
But Luca wasn’t meeting his gaze. His eyes were fixed on the floor, unfocused, fingers curled tight around the edge of the blanket in his lap.
A faint flush warmed his cheeks, like he might be running a fever.
And then Julian saw it.
The Marca Hueca.
A bruise of shadow blooming beneath Luca’s sweater, edges frayed and darker than before—too much like the quinceanera girl’s.
Julian blinked hard, hoping he was imagining it. He wasn’t.
The guilt hooked deep.
Luca didn’t even know.
None of them knew.
He had to get out.
He turned—only to find Rio squarely in his path, silent and unmoving.
“You’re on restriction,” Rio said, cold and sharp.
The room went quiet. All eyes turned to the brothers.
“Restriction?!” Julian snapped. “What am I, twelve?”
“Trying to ground you is pointless,” Rio replied, already pulling out his phone. “You’d just sneak out anyway. But now?” He turned the screen toward Julian. His name glowed on the GPS app, blinking like a warning light. “I’m going to be watching your every move.”
“You’re kidding me—!” Julian’s words came fast, but Rio cut him off.
“If I catch you somewhere you’re not supposed to be, or you show up late again,” Rio said, calm and merciless, “I’ll call Enrique and tell him you’re not allowed to see Yadriel after school.”
Julian’s breath caught.
That was straight-up diabolical. The last thing he needed was to look bad in front of Enrique, and especially to be kept from seeing his boyfriend outside of school.
His anger ignited like gasoline.
“You can’t DO that!” he barked.
Rio shot back, “Watch me.”
“Fine,” Julian muttered. “Whatever.”
He stomped toward the hallway.
Rio didn’t move. Didn’t follow.
He just held Julian’s gaze—steady, unbudging—until Julian looked away.
Somehow, that felt worse than yelling.
“Stupid, stupid rules!” Julian muttered, pacing the small bedroom like a caged animal. He kicked a stray sneaker, sending it skittering into the wall with a dull thud.
He let out a sharp laugh that died halfway out of his throat. “Always finding trouble,” he told himself bitterly. “Even when you’re trying to dodge it.”
His limbs felt heavy with exhaustion, the kind that lived in his bones. He collapsed onto his bed, sprawling across the mattress as the old springs creaked under his weight. He stared up at the ceiling, at the cracks that splintered across the plaster like veins.
They reminded him of the Marca Hueca—jagged, wrong, and quietly growing.
Every time he thought he had a grip on things, something else slipped loose. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak the truth. Couldn’t stop screwing up with the people he loved.
A knock at the door dragged him upright.
He didn’t move. Maybe they’d go away.
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.”
Some of the tightness eased from Luca’s shoulders. The shadow on his chest even seemed to dull at the edges.
Luca bumped his knee. “See? You can tell me stuff without the world ending.”
Julian huffed a laugh that faded fast. The relief made room for the old sting. “Rio doesn’t have to be such a dick about it,” he added.
“You both suck at feelings,” Luca said, almost fond. “That’s your problem.”
Julian exhaled through his nose. “You might be right.”
They fell into a quiet that felt more like a truce than a silence. Julian let himself rest in it—just for a second—until Luca said, “You good?”
Julian forced a grin. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
As Luca stood, Julian’s gaze snagged on something beneath the sweater: a flicker of movement, a shadow that pulsed like a second heartbeat.
There it was—the Marca Hueca. Pressed to the center of Luca’s chest, dim and sickly and growing darker by the hour.
Julian wanted to scream. Wanted to tear the thing away with his hands, wanted someone—anyone—to fix this. But Luca just stood there, tired and soft-eyed, completely unaware that something inside him was rotting.
“Hey, Luca?” Julian said as his friend paused in the doorway.
Luca turned back. “Yeah?”
“How are you holding up?”
Luca blinked, then gave a small, crooked smile. “Just worn out, man. You know how it is.”
Julian nodded.
Yeah. He did. And it was killing him.
“You get some rest, all right?” Julian replied, offering a supportive grin that ached with sincerity.
Luca nodded and disappeared behind the door once more, leaving Julian alone.