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Luna snorts, and it’s soft but deadly, like she’s trying not to laugh, which only makes me want to double down.
“I spent centuries perfecting the art,” I say, straightening in my seat like this is a TED Talk for the unworthy. “While you were doing—what? Brooding and stabbing things? I was reading lips. It’s the ultimate eavesdropping technique. And sexy. I read that in a book.”
Elias turns to Luna. “The only thing he’s qualified to read is the back of a cereal box. And even then, he adds dramatic monologue.”
“With flair,” I point out. “Don’t act like you weren’trivetedwhen I turned the Cheerios box into a Shakespearean tragedy.”
Luna tries to cover her smile with her hand. Fails. Her eyes slide to me, and gods help me, Ifeelit—how much she loves me. It’s there. Right there in the curve of her mouth, in the way she leans toward me, in the way her hand drifts like she’s not sure whether she wants to touch me or smack me.
So I do what I do best.
Lean in, barely a breath away, and whisper, “I read your lips every night in my dreams.”
Elias groans so loud the couple in the next box looks over.
Luna chokes on her laugh, covering her face with both hands now, and it’s the best sound I’ve heard inweeks.
Mission:Chaos with Bonus Cringe— accomplished.
But underneath it, there’s this quiet ache I’m learning how to live with. Because I know what she’s facing. I know this play isn’t just theater. It’s a stage for them to measure us, weigh us, decide if she’s something to fear or something to leash.
And gods, if they try to do either, I’ll burn the whole performance down before the second act.
But for now—just for now—I sit beside the girl I love, crack the worst jokes imaginable, and make her laugh in a world that wants hersilent.
Let them watch. I’m her chaos. And I’ll always make her smile first.
I lift my chin and narrow my eyes at the stage like I’m studying ancient scripture. One hand pressed to my temple, the other dramatically raised, fingers steepled. I am concentration incarnate. Poised. Purposeful. Possibly full of shit.
“The man in the third row just mouthed something scandalous,” I whisper to Luna, who’s already halfway through a sip of her drink.
She doesn’t look at me. Not yet. She’s smart like that.
I wait three seconds. Let the suspense linger.
“‘Her hair smells like fallen stars and ruined men.’” I pause for effect. “Clearly about you.”
Luna chokes.
Not dainty. Not elegant.
A full snort-laugh-cough hybrid that she tries to bury in the back of her hand. I beam like I’ve just solved world peace.
“You’re not even looking at him,” she hisses, swatting me lightly with her fan. “You’re looking at the wrong section—”
“Ah, but see,” I say, shifting into her space like I’m about to unveil some cosmic truth, “true lip reading doesn’t come from the eyes. It comes from thesoul.”
Elias mutters something unintelligible behind us that sounds like'soul rot.'
I ignore him.
“Besides,” I say, straightening, “the lighting is garbage. Absolute crime scene lighting. My art cannot be appreciated in these conditions.”
“You’re not an artist, you’re a disaster,” Elias says, leaning forward between us again like some inconvenient shadow puppet. “The last time you lip-read, you claimed the Council was conspiring to replace all chairs with flamingos.”
“Still a better idea than these theater seats,” I shoot back, wiggling dramatically in mine. “My thighs haven’t been this offended since Keira wore that shade of envy-green.”
That gets a bark of laughter from Elias.