05 the moon

Max’s POV

We’re at Luna’s favorite bookstore, a cozy spot dwarfed by the flashy megastore down the street. She moves through the shelves with ease, like she’s memorized every title. No need for an assistant—she owns this place, in her quiet way. I trail behind, letting her lead. She’s the one who knows what we’re looking for, and I’m just along for the ride, still replaying the scene at the football field. Tyler’s clenched fists, his buddy’s cruel “Lunatic” jab. It’s been gnawing at me.

Luna’s not exactly Miss Congeniality—she shot down my attempt at friendship like I was a pest—but no one deserves that kind of venom. The way Tyler glared at her, like she’d personally wronged him, makes me think there’s history there. Old flames, maybe? I scoff to myself. Like I give a shit. Still, guilt tugs at me. She wouldn’t have been on that bleacher, catching their hate, if she wasn’t waiting for me.

She sighs, leaning against a shelf, tapping her chin as she scans the biography section. “I’m running out of ideas,” she admits, glancing at me. “I’ve got some, but I’m not sure you’d be into them. Better to pick something you’ll actually want to read.”

“What’s on your mind?” I ask, tilting my head.

She bites her lip, and I hate how it draws my eyes in the cramped aisle. Her lips are nothing special—small, ordinary—but my focus snags on them anyway. Fuck. “I’m thinking a musician or an artist,” she says.

I roll my eyes. Predictable. “See? You’re not interested,” she fires back. “Got a better idea?”

Smirking, I lean in. “If it’s up to me, I’d pick the biography of the greatest football player ever.”

She shuts her eyes, head tipping back against the shelf. “I knew it. I know nothing about football.”

“You don’t have to,” I counter. “It’s about their journey, not the playbook.”

“Sounds boring,” she mutters.

I scoff. “For you.” Her lips purse, and I catch a flicker of amusement. Progress. We’re actually talking, not just trading glares.

“Fine. A politician?” I suggest, testing her.

Her eyes widen in horror. “That’s worse.”

I scan the shelf beside me, and a title catches my eye. Grinning, I pull it out and flash the cover: Cassandra Castillo: The Biography, Offstage. Luna’s jaw drops. “No. No way.”

I chuckle, enjoying her panic. “Why not? It’s your mom. You’ve got the inside scoop. Easy A.”

She shakes her head, frantic. “Or maybe your dad’s,” I tease, scanning for a Lucas Klein title—something like Business at the Speed of Thought. “Bet it’s here somewhere.”

“Max,” she hisses, glaring. “Not happening.”

I shrug, smirking wider. “An A+ sounds pretty fucking good, don’t you think?”

“No way I’m picking those,” she snaps, teeth gritted. “I’m not writing about my parents’ lives.”

“Why not?” I push, half-joking, half-curious. “Enlighten me.”

Her expression shifts, voice dropping. “I’d cry reading them.” I freeze, caught off guard. “They cover their struggles, how they met. It’s… too much.”

I don’t know what to say. Sadness in her parents’ story? I don’t follow gossip rags or entertainment news, so I’m clueless about the Kleins beyond their wealth and fame. My sister, Sienna, would laugh at my ignorance. Luna’s words hang heavy, and I regret pushing.

“This is going nowhere,” she says, straightening, stepping closer. “We do it the traditional way. Winner picks the book.”

I frown. “Traditional way?”

“Rock, paper, scissors.”

I laugh. “We’re not in kindergarten.”

Her glare is fierce, but damn if it isn’t cute. Cute? No fucking way. “Max,” she presses, “we’re not wasting time debating.”

I hate losing, but I play along. She’s intense, probably going for rock. I’ll counter with paper. “One, two, three—”

I throw paper. She throws scissors. My confidence crumbles like, well, paper. Fuck.

---

Harry fucking Styles. Of all the books, Luna picks his biography. I’m slouched at a coffee shop table near the bookstore, nursing an iced coffee, while she scribbles notes with a grin that screams victory. She’s in her element, happy to do the whole assignment solo. Fine by me—I’m done with this.

I slurp my drink loudly, slamming it down. She glances up, chuckling at my grumpiness. That’s when I see it: Luna Klein smiling. It’s… refreshing. Not cute—definitely not—but different. Like she’s not the guarded girl from school.

Since I’ve got zero interest in Harry Styles, I pivot. “What’s with your parents’ biographies? Why’d you say they’d make you cry?”

Her pen pauses. She doesn’t answer right away, eyes fixed on her notes. Finally, she leans back, avoiding my gaze. “I can’t read them. They detail their struggles, how they met. It’s… tragic.”

I blink, surprised by her openness. “Tragic how?”

She closes her eyes, voice soft. “Their love story. It’s heartbreaking.” She snaps her eyes open, like she’s shocked herself by saying it, like she didn’t mean to let me in. I don’t mind—her talking, even a little, beats her usual silence.

“It can’t be worse than my parents,” I say, scoffing. “My dad took three bullets for my mom.”

Her gasp is sharp, eyes wide. “That’s… crazy.”

I smile. “He’s the good kind of crazy. You know what they say—if a man’s in love, really cares, he doesn’t give up.”

Luna stares, like I’ve said something profound. But her expression shifts, sadness creeping in. “Is that true?” she murmurs, almost to herself. “My mom said the same.”

Silence settles. How’d we end up talking love stories? I steer us elsewhere. “Your name. Why’d your parents pick Luna?”

She rests her chin on her hands, a wistful smile forming. “Mom’s obsessed with the galaxy. She calls Dad Neptune—dreams and illusions, like the mythology. Poetic, right? She’s an artist.”

I nod, caught by how free she seems, unburdened. Not the tense girl from school. “And your brother?”

“Aiden means ‘fiery one,’ like the sun. He’s the center of Mom’s universe.” Her smile fades slightly. “Then there’s me, the moon. I don’t know why. Mom and Dad just love the moon.” Her voice carries a quiet ache. “The moon’s never the sun, though, right?”

Her words hit harder than I expect. She can’t think she’s lesser. That “Lunatic” jab from the field flashes in my mind, pissing me off all over again. “I like the moon,” I blurt, unthinking. “I like watching it.”

Her eyes lock onto mine, unblinking, jaw dropping slightly. I realize how it sounds—her, the moon, me watching. Fuck. Her cheeks flush crimson, and I curse myself. “I mean, I watch it from my balcony sometimes,” I add, but the damage is done. She thinks I meant her.

The air shifts, charged with something I didn’t intend. I need to fix this, fast, before she gets the wrong idea—or before I admit I might not mind if she does.