Lucifer has scars. So does Martin.
Once, he came back from one of his trips bleeding, and it was my mom who stitched him up—right here in our house.
I ran to my room and cried. Seeing him hurt broke my heart, but I didn’t want him to know I was upset.
I grew up hearing my brother say I should never waste my tears on stupid things, or for just anyone.
“Tears are special. Don’t waste them,”he once told me after I fell off my bike, scraped my knee, and threw a tantrum.
At that moment, I hated him. I didn’t care about wasting tears—I was in pain and had plenty to cry about. But I grew up in a family where even the women are tough. Crying was almost a mortal sin.
I’m only fifteen, but I’m not like the other girls my age. I already know death. Besides losing my dad in a horrible way, my mom has been living with an incurable illness for years.
Thinking about that—how I no longer have my dad, and soon I’ll lose my mom too—makes me sad.
I don’t need one more reason for my heart to ache tonight. I already have one standing right in front of me, so I push the dark thoughts away.
“Lucifer,” I repeat, this time with less courage.
I’m sure he heard me, but he doesn’t stop walking.
“Go to bed, Jackie. The night’s cold and you’re in pajamas.”
“How would you know? You didn’t even look at me.”
“I always know everything about you.”
My heart skips a beat.
Of course I know what he meant:I know everything about you because you’re like a little sister to me.
But I feel differently. In my heart, there’s a locked-away secret: Lucifer is my love.
I couldn’t say when I stopped seeing him as a younger version of Martin and started dreaming about marrying him. It just… happened.
If I told any of my friends, they’d laugh and call me crazy.
Lucifer, even though he treats me like a sister, has never given me a chance to get close. I remember once hugging him the way I always do when Martin comes home, and he went stiff.
I noticed—even at twelve—that he didn’t like hugs. I don’t think he likes human contact at all. So I never touched him again.
If he’s never even managed to be a real brother to me—to give me hugs or kisses on the forehead—how would I ever convince him, now that I know I love him, to marry me someday?
“I don’t like it when you’re gone so long.”
He finally stops walking, which is a good thing, because I miscalculated when I ran out of the house like a crazy person, wearing only a short and T-shirt pajama set.
Look at me. Why do you never look at me?
But I know it’s not just me he avoids. He doesn’t really see anyone. Not even Martin, his best and only friend.
I watch his broad shoulders, covered by his signature black leather jacket, move slightly in my direction. When he finally turns to face me, I hold my breath.
“Go inside, Jackie.”
“Only if you promise you’ll come back.”
I want to walk up to him and ask for a hug. I want to breathe him in, even if he ends up giving me a brotherly kiss on the forehead. But the way he’s looking at me makes it clear:Don’t come any closer.
