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She smiles. And I hate it. Not because it’s cruel. Not because she’s mocking me. But because it’s knowing. Like she sees straight through my rage, through the years of resentment I keep welded to my bones, through the way I fight every damn second to not want this bond.
Like she already knows how this ends.
She drops into her ridiculous, infuriating fighting stance, her weight shifting onto the balls of her feet, shoulders squared like she thinks she can take me.
"Fight me."
I stare at her. Then, because I can’t help myself, I roll my eyes so hard I might be able to see my past lives.
“Are you serious?” I gesture at her like she’s some kind of divine mistake. “This is your solution?”
Luna shrugs, casual as hell. “You need to get that anger out somehow.”
I scoff. “I do just fine on my own.”
“You really don’t.”
My jaw clenches. “Luna.”
She lifts a brow. Waiting. Daring me.
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand through my hair. “I’m not fighting you.”
“Why not?”
I glare. “Because I’d win.”
She smirks. “You think so?”
I blink. Stare.
“Luna,” I deadpan, “I am twice your size.”
She nods, mock-thoughtful. “Sure.”
“And I’ve spent years fighting things stronger than you.”
“Right, right.”
“And I, ” I narrow my eyes. “Are you even listening?”
She grins. “Nope.”
Oh, I am going to kill her. Or kiss her. Or, more realistically, stand here suffering while she continues to make my life miserable.
I exhale sharply. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Luna hums, then tilts her head. “Then don’t.”
And, fuck me, I don’t know if she means in a fight. Or at all.
"Stop that." My voice is rough, uneven, but she doesn’t stop.
I take a step back, but she’s already moving, quick, reckless, unrelenting, and I should’ve known better.
She swings.
A sharp, testing motion, her fist cutting through the air, aimed straight for my ribs. I sidestep easily, but she’s already adjusting, already shifting to close the gap I tried to make.