“No. My hair tie.” My voice drops as my eyes scan the ground, searching for it like it is made of gold. It is just rubber, but it makes me feel safe.
He watches me, confused. I look up at him, my brows pulling tight, my lips trembling as I struggle to breathe.
“I... I need it, Judas.”
My fingers twist over and over around the gold heart medallion at my throat. It does nothing.
His jaw tightens. He still holds my hand for a second longer, then lets go. While my thoughts spiral, he shifts the helmet in his grip, turns it over, and pulls the strap, freeing it.
He reaches for me again, lifting the sleeve of my leather jacket. When he sees the scars, his hand freezes.
He moves it up on my cheek, cupping it.
Then let his palm slide down to the back of my neck, pulling me into his chest. His heartbeat presses against my ear. No words come from him.
In that second, he sees me. He understands more than anyone ever has, and somehow gives me more comfort than a stupid hair tie ever could.
His helmet slips from his grasp and hits the ground.
My eyes burn, filled with tears. And I don’t force them back. For once, I don’t have to be tough and strong. Somehow, I know I can be vulnerable withhim.
He eases me back, taking my wrist. Carefully, he wraps the helmet strap around it, fastening the heavy metal clip so it rests loose against my skin.
“Thanks,” I whisper, sniffing as I stare down at the black strap hugging my wrist.
His thumb lifts toward his chin, brushing it lightly, but the motion falters before it finishes.
I know that sign.
I saw it earlier today while watching a video on learning sign language. It was in the first lesson, about family.
He signedLittle Sister.
I lift my hand, trying to remember what I learned earlier. The moment I meet his eyes, almost everything evaporates from my brain. But instinct of what’s left takes over.
My fingers touch my forehead, then I draw the sign down softly.
Brother.
He chuckles. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. His thumb lifts, brushing up near his lip as his jaw tightens with pride.
Maybe I am good at something.
Maybe, this time, I can let someone in.
But he still can’t tear down the walls I built; he can only crack a single brick.
He turns away, lifting his hand to tell me to follow. Before I move, I crouch, grab his helmet, and set it against the bike.
I turn and hurry to catch up to him.
We approach the wooden stairs leading to the entrance of a small beach house. Music pounds from above, with the bass vibrating so intensely that I can feel it through the steps beneath my feet. Neon light spills through the windows, bleeding color into the night outside.
By the time we reach the last step, he looks at me and nods once.
I nod back.
He greets a man standing near the entrance. The man is almost my height, but thick through the shoulders. Next to Judas, we both look like kids pretending to be grown. His mustache is thin and uneven, scattered across his upper lip instead of framing his jaw. If he shaved it off, he would look better than he does now.
