LUNA'S POV
Todaywas humiliating.
Capital H. Italicized. Bolded. Underlined.
If there was an award for "Most Dramatic Fall in a Library," I'd already have the trophy engraved. Because not only did an entire shelf collapse on me like it was auditioning for WWE, but guess who was there to witness my public destruction?
Hardin Briggs.
Of all people on campus, it had to be Steven's sworn enemy.
Okay, maybe "enemy" is too strong a word. Steven just hates him with the quiet passion of a man who doesn't understand how someone could be this… effortlessly perfect. Hardin's a walking enigma, sleeves rolled up, sharp jawline, and those piercing blue eyes like the whole world existed just to watch him. Every little smirk, every lazy tilt of his head—it's maddening.
Steven says he's "suspicious." I say Steven just can't handle competition in the facial symmetry department.
So there I was, in the psychology section in the library, being the brave independent woman I thought I was—stretching, tiptoeing, and somehow deciding climbing a shelf for a book was a good idea.
Spoiler: it was not.
One wobble later, and I was on the floor surrounded by the corpses of fallen textbooks, my dignity somewhere between "ouch" and "please let me disappear."
And in the corner of my shame spiral?
Hardin. Typing on his laptop, eyes on me, smirking. Like the universe sent him as a witness to my downfall.
When our eyes met, I swear time froze—and not in the romantic way. More like in the "God, why am I alive?" way.
So, yes. I ran. I gathered what was left of my will to live and sprinted straight to the fountain. Because if there's one person who'd understand my pain, it's mythird year music major best friend, Steven.
And of course, there he was—right in his natural habitat: the fountain steps. Guitar in hand. Travis beside him, vibing like background music in a teen movie.
I dragged myself toward them, my life flashing before my eyes, and collapsed dramatically beside Steven.
Steven turned his head slightly, and of course—of course— he had that smug, stupid smile.
"So... did you survive?" he teased, his voice dripping with playful mockery.
"No. I died. This is my ghost." I said shamelessly, letting out a sigh so heavy it probably affected the global air pressure.
Travis snorted.
Steven chuckled. "So what happened? Couldn't find the book? Got lost in the shelves? Did a dictionary fall on your head?"
"No, a shelf fell on me," I mumbled, feeling the sting of the memory all over again.
That got him. His face twisted, and then he burst into laughter so loud people actually turned.
I sniffed dramatically, eyes distant like a war veteran recalling battle. "I climbed it."
Travis wheezed. "You what?"
"I climbed it!" I snapped. "And it betrayed me! The whole thing fell. I'm lucky I still have a spine."
Steven was crying now. "A shelf—fell—on you?"
"Don't you dare laugh," I warned, but he was already doubled over.
"And guess who saw everything?" I added, bitterness seeping through my teeth like oversteeped tea. "Hardin. Sitting there. Typing away. Judging me like a Greek god of smugness."
Steven's amused expression instantly dropped, replaced with something between disgust and murder.
"So it's because of Hardin you look like this?" he asked, his voice practically choking on the name.
I sat up slightly. "No—well—I mean—not because of him, just… the embarrassment, okay?"
Steven's jaw twitched slightly. "Right. Him. The guy who dresses like he's in a corporate drama and walks around like he's about to fire someone for breathing too loudly."
"I mean, he's… alright," I offered, unsure where this was going.
Steven raised a brow. "He looks like he pays taxes for fun."
"He's neat."
"He's suspicious."
"He hasn't done anything wrong."
Steven leaned back and muttered, "That's exactly what's wrong."
I blinked. "Are you jealous?"
"Of that human spreadsheet?" he snorted. "No."
Travis raised both brows and smirked.
"His vibe," Steven added sharply, "is just… giving danger. Like 'I'll ruin your life but in a polite way' type of danger."
I couldn't help the laugh that escaped. "You're insane."
Steven pointed at himself smugly. "Yet you can't survive without me."
I rolled my eyes and leaned back into his shoulder again.
"Fine. But don't get cocky."
"Too late."
***************************************
STEVEN'S POV
There's a strange kind of silence that happens when Luna leans her head on my shoulder. Like the whole world just... pauses for a second — and all that exists is her sighing dramatically, like life itself personally handed her an F grade.
And me... trying not to smile too hard.
I didn't say anything at first. Just let her be. She looked like a soggy potato chip — sad, fragile, and a little bit salty.
Then she started talking about the shelf incident.
And Hardin.
Of course. Hardin.
I swear on my last guitar string, if I hear that guy's name one more time, I might actually combust. Not because I hate him — okay, maybe I do a little — but because his vibe is just wrong. He's too put together. Like the kind of guy who probably keeps a gratitude journal and color-codes his feelings.
Meanwhile, Luna was out here climbing shelves like a mountain goat with no survival instinct. Why? Because she wanted a book. A BOOK.
I stared at her while she talked — eyes big, hands flying, voice dramatic. She really meant it when she said she almost died by bookshelf. And all while Mr. Corporate Casual sat there typing like he was writing the Constitution.
And now she was sad.
Nope. I wasn't having it.
I snapped my guitar case shut and stood up.
"Come on," I said.
She blinked up at me. "Huh?"
"Get up. You're not ending your day like this."
"I literally just sat down," she groaned, but I was already tugging her to her feet like a motivational speaker with no credentials and way too much caffeine.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"To fix your brain," I said. "Because it clearly glitched."
Travis just watched us, one brow raised like he was witnessing something unspoken — which, let's be honest, he probably was. He smirked but didn't say anything. Smart man.
We walked past the quad, and I tried real hard not to notice how tightly Luna was holding onto my sleeve.
When we got there, I went straight to the vending machine and punched in her usual code.
Her eyes widened. "You remembered my snack code?"
"You never shut up about it," I muttered, handing her the bar.
She smiled — small but real. It made something in my chest loosen a little.
I plopped her down on one of the couches, grabbed two cups of hot chocolate from the crusty machine nearby, and handed one to her.
She stared at me.
"What?" I asked.
"You're... being very nice."
"Yeah, don't get used to it. It's temporary."
She smiled. A small one, but it was there. And that's when I knew the plan was working.
We sat there in the cozy silence of artificial cocoa and vending machine ambiance. I didn't even need to say much — her expression was softening, and the color was returning to her cheeks.
Then she said it.
"He was really just sitting there. Watching. Like he didn't even blink."
Hardin. Again. This guy's such a weapon of mass destruction wrapped in good hair and poor decisions.
I sipped my hot chocolate with the calm of someone suppressing internal rage.
I mean, who wears a white shirt and rolled-up sleeves to the library like he's about to give a TED Talk?
Why couldn't it have been me who saw her fall? I would've caught her — or at least made the fall sound poetic.
Instead, she was haunted by his perfectly-ironed judgment.
I turned to her, serious for once.
"Luna, listen to me," I said. "You're the most chaotic, impulsive, shelf-climbing human I know. And also one of the best. You don't need to feel dumb because some guy in corporate cosplay watched you be... yourself."
She blinked at me.
"Corporate cosplay?" she asked.
"Don't act like it's not accurate."
She snorted, finally.
"I'm honest," I said. "If I'd been there, I'd have caught you."
She tilted her head. "Or laughed?"
"Both," I admitted.
That got her smiling again — the kind of smile that made her look less like a walking disaster and more like the Luna I knew.
I leaned back, satisfied. "There she is."
"Okay, okay," she said, sipping her drink. "Maybe I can survive without you."
"Lies."
"Yeah," she admitted. "Biglies."
So we started working on the assignment, and honestly, doing homework with Luna is like eating ice cream while your house is on fire — it's sweet, but you just know something's going to explode eventually.
Somehow, we breezed through the first part like two people who actually paid attention in class — which, let's be honest, we rarely did.
Then came the next question — something about trauma and behavior — and we both slumped back like people who'd just opened a group project and seen their names under "team leader."
I sighed. "Remind me again why you're studying this course?"
Luna laughed. "I guess I'll go get—" She started, already sitting up halfway like the brave little shelf climber she is.
"We'll go together," I cut in, hand on her arm. "I'm never leaving you alone. Again."
She blinked, startled by my sudden bodyguard energy.
"Steven, it's just a book—"
"That's what you said last time, and next thing I know, you're buried under a shelf while Hardin types like it's open mic night for Bond villains."
She paused... then nodded. "Yeah. Fair."
So we went.
My eyes scanned the area like a paranoid CCTV camera, searching for any sign of Smug-Face Hardin.
We made our way to the psychology section like two undercover agents on a high-stakes mission for trauma literature. Luna was already mumbling "socio-environmental what?" under her breath as we started scanning the shelves.
I was skimming the shelf, fingers trailing over worn spines, when my hand finally landed on it. Bingo.
"Luna, I found—" I turned around, holding the book up triumphantly… but the space beside me was empty.
"Luna?" My brows pulled together, eyes scanning—
And then I saw her.
Up ahead. Standing right beside Smug-Face Hardin.
My stomach dropped like a bad chord in a good song.
What the—?