A/N- Pre-series. What was it like for Luke's 'family' after Thalia died? Slight Thuke references. My first non-drabble-related fic. (Thanks to my friend, Runt the Brave, for the title :D)

Hope you like. Review if you wish :)

DISCLAIMER: Although I received many wonderful Christmas presents, the rights to Percy Jackson and the Olympians were not among them. I do not own PJO.

She was his sister.

He believed beyond a shadow of a doubt that this little girl was his sister, and he hoped with all his heart that she always would be.

Not by birth, of course. She was a daughter of Athena, him- well, not so much. His strengths were in mischief and slight of hand, not intelligence. And although their matching blond hair may suggest at a glance that the two were siblings, their eyes- hers gray, his blue- and faces- hers round, shining with all the innocence of a seven year old girl, his sharp and angular, weathered beyond his years- proved otherwise.

Still, she was his sister. His little sister. He would look out for her no matter what, and he hoped that when she grew older she would do the same for him. After the death of her- the other girl, the one that he tried and tried not to think about- all the two had left was each other.

Just two thirds of a family.

It was true now; the little girl was all he had. He might have been in a cabin full of other kids like him, full of mischievous and sneaky characters, and she might have been in her cabin full of people like her, full of brainiacs and strategists, but there was no one that he trusted, cared for, or- or loved-like the little girl. And so he would prove it.

With pride, he took on the roles of father and brother simultaneously. He taught her everything that he knew about swordsmanship- because if there was one thing he knew better than this daughter of Athena, it was that. He trained her every day in the arena- along with the rest of her cabin, but there was no question that all his attention was on the little girl.

When the camp would gather for meals in the mess hall, she would sit with her table and he with his, no questions asked, but every now and then, he would see her looking at him from across the mess hall, and every now and then, small tears would spill out of her grey eyes. So every now and then, he would look back at her, and he would smile, and make funny faces- anything to make the little girl stop crying and laugh the beautiful laugh that he loved to hear, because it meant that she was happy.

The little girl became everything to him- his sister, his friend, almost a surrogate daughter- and he almost forgot about her- the other girl, the one he tried and tried not to think about.

But still, when the moon was full and the stars were bright, he would lie awake at night and remember.

His mind would flood with memories, memories of peace and freedom and happiness and family- but this time, it was a family of three. And he tried not to think about her- tried and tried and tried- but still, he would remember.

He would close his eyes, and staring back at him would be those electric blue eyes of hers, the eyes that always seemed to bore right through him, with the stare that made him think that she could see right through to the very depths of his soul. And he would open his eyes, shake himself a bit, blink a few times, and try to go back to sleep- but still, she was there.

So when he woke up the next day, he would go and find the little girl, and she would smile and laugh and make all his worries disappear. And so it was every day- him and the little girl, smiling and laughing and slowly forgetting about the other girl, until one day, the little girl wasn't so little anymore.

And suddenly everything changed. When they talked, he began to notice a soft pink blush, slowly creeping into her cheeks, and he would ask if she was okay, and she would run away, embarrassed about nothing- at least, nothing that he could ever figure out.

The little girl wasn't what she used to be, she wasn't his sister, and he felt the whole world seem to collapse and cave in around him. She wasn't that little girl he used to hold, the little girl he used to hug, the little girl whose hand he held.

So he would run back to his cabin, and lock the door, and though he would never tell anyone, he would collapse on his bed and cry himself to sleep.

And he would allow his mind to fill with memories, memories of the other girl, memories of campfires and crickets and stolen kisses under starry skies.