Falling

CHAPTER FOUR

|Luna Moore|

I shouldn't care.

I shouldn't even think about her, not after everything, not after the way she threw us away like we were nothing, like I was nothing. But it's like a sickness, a fever I can't sweat out, an infection that festers no matter how much I try to cut it out of me.

Aurelia Branson is a wound I can't let heal.

I lean back against the cold metal of the bleachers, my fingers drumming against my knee, the faint echo of a basketball bouncing somewhere in the gym. Practice ended hours ago, the court long empty, but I stayed behind because I couldn't bring myself to go home. I needed the silence, the space, the feeling of the hardwood beneath my feet to remind me that I'm here, that I'm real, that I'm still the girl who doesn't let anyone break her—even when it feels like someone already did.

My jaw clenches as the image of Aurelia flashes through my mind—her standing in that ridiculous dress at the ball, looking like something out of a dream I used to have, a dream I forced myself to stop having because it doesn't belong to me anymore. But that wasn't what got to me. No, what really f****d with my head was the way she looked at me, the way her eyes softened, the way her lips parted like she wanted to say something but didn't know how, like she still felt something, even after all this time.

And then there was the bruise.

That f*****g bruise.

I grip the edge of the bleacher so tightly my knuckles ache, my nails digging into the metal as I replay the way she flinched when I touched her cheek, the way she whispered my mother like it wasn't the worst f*****g thing she could've said, like it wasn't something that made me want to punch a hole through the nearest wall.

I don't know why it pissed me off so much.

I mean, I do, but I don't want to admit it.

Because the truth is, no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise, no matter how much I tell myself that she doesn't deserve my anger, my rage, my care—I still want to protect her.

Even if she didn't protect me.

I exhale sharply, pushing off the bleachers and grabbing my water bottle, trying to shake off the thoughts before they settle in too deep, before they start making me feel things I refuse to feel. But before I can take a step toward the exit, my phone buzzes in my pocket, the vibration sending a sharp jolt through me like a warning.

I hesitate.

No one texts me this late.

Not unless it's important.

With a sigh, I pull my phone out, my stomach twisting when I see the name flashing across the screen.

Aurelia.

My chest tightens. My fingers hover over the screen.

I should ignore it. I should.

But I don't.

Instead, I swipe the notification open, my eyes scanning the message, my breath catching in my throat as I read the words she probably typed with shaking fingers.

Aurelia: Are you still awake?

I stare at the text for a long moment, my pulse pounding, my mind screaming at me to turn my phone off, to forget she ever reached out, to pretend she doesn't still have this power over me.

But then—

Aurelia: I need you.

And just like that, I'm already grabbing my jacket, already heading for the doors, already losing the battle before I even put up a fight.

I barely register the cold night air as I push through the gym doors, my legs moving before my brain fully catches up, before I can talk myself out of whatever the hell I'm about to do.

I need you.

Two f*****g words, and suddenly, I'm seventeen again, sneaking into her room at midnight, kissing her until my lips are numb, whispering promises I thought we'd have forever to keep.

I shouldn't go.

I know I shouldn't go.

But I already am.

The parking lot is mostly empty, just a few scattered cars under flickering streetlights, and my bike is right where I left it—leaning against the side of the building, its frame still warm from the ride here. I swing a leg over it, gripping the handlebars so tight my fingers tingle, trying to convince myself that this is nothing, that it's just a ride, just a conversation, that it doesn't mean anything.

Except it does.

It always f*****g does with her.

The streets blur past as I push the bike faster, the wind biting at my face, the night stretching open before me like some kind of warning I don't have the sense to heed. Her house is only ten minutes away, tucked into one of those picture-perfect neighborhoods where all the lawns are neatly trimmed and the porches have rocking chairs no one actually sits in. It looks peaceful, quiet—like nothing bad ever happens here.

But I know better.

I roll up to the curb and kill the engine, my heart pounding as I stare up at the dark windows, my breath fogging in the cold air. Her parents' car is still in the driveway. Good. That means she's not alone. That means whatever this is—whatever she needs—it's not as bad as the worst scenarios running through my head.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

I don't bother texting her to let her know I'm here. I don't want to give her a chance to change her mind, to tell me to leave, to take back those two words before I figure out what the hell they even mean. Instead, I move toward the side of the house, slipping through the familiar path I've taken too many times before, my boots crunching softly against the gravel as I make my way to her window.

It's open. Just a c***k. Like she was expecting me.

I exhale, running a hand through my hair, trying to push down the rush of something that rises in my chest at the thought.

I tap my knuckles against the glass, and within seconds, the curtain shifts. Then she's there—golden hair tumbling over her shoulders, eyes wide, lips parted like she wasn't sure I'd actually come.

Like she wasn't sure I still would.

She pushes the window up without a word, stepping back to let me in. And I don't hesitate.

I climb inside, my boots landing softly on the carpet, the scent of her filling my lungs—something sweet, like vanilla and sleep, something so painfully her that I feel it in my bones.

For a long second, neither of us speaks.

Then—

"You okay?" My voice comes out rougher than I intend, like the words were scraped out of me, like I'm already bracing myself for whatever she's about to say.

She nods, but it's shaky. Uncertain.

"I just..." Her hands grip the hem of her oversized sweater, her eyes flickering away. "I didn't know who else to call."

My jaw tightens. "What happened?"

A beat of silence. Then, so quietly I almost don't hear it—

"I had another fight with my mom."

My fists clench at my sides. "Did she—"

"No," she cuts in quickly, shaking her head, but her voice wavers, and I don't f*****g buy it. "She just—she said some things."

I stare at her, my chest tight, my mind racing, my body caught between wanting to comfort her and wanting to break something for ever making her feel like this.

"What kind of things?" I ask, softer now, careful.

She bites her lip. "The usual." Her arms wrap around herself, like she's trying to make herself smaller. "That I'm going to hell. That I need to pray. That I need to fix whatever's wrong with me before it's too late."

I swear I see red.

"Aurelia—"

"I don't want to talk about it." She shakes her head, looking at me with something raw, something vulnerable, something that makes my stomach twist. "I just—I just needed to see you."

I exhale slowly, forcing down the anger, the urge to hunt her mother down and make her regret every word that came out of her mouth.

Instead, I step closer, hesitating for just a second before reaching out, my fingers brushing against her wrist.

"I'm here," I murmur. "Okay? I'm here."

Her breath catches. And then, before I can say anything else, before I can think, she moves.

One second, she's staring up at me with those big, heart-breaking eyes.

The next, she's kissing me.

Hard. Desperate. Like she's drowning and I'm the only thing keeping her afloat.

And just like that—

I let her.

|Aurelia Branson|

Luna doesn't push me away.

She doesn't hesitate, doesn't question, doesn't pull back like she should.

Instead, she kisses me back.

And for the first time tonight—hell, maybe for the first time in years—I breathe.

Her lips are firm against mine, warm and demanding in a way that steals the breath right out of my lungs. Her hands come up to grip my waist, steadying me, grounding me, but also setting my whole body on fire. She tastes like mint and something darker, something intoxicating, something that makes my knees weak and my heart clench because I missed this.

I missed her.

I don't even realize I'm clutching at her jacket until she shifts, her fingers flexing where they rest on my hips, pulling me just a fraction closer, just enough to make me dizzy with the heat radiating off her.

God, she still makes me feel like this. Like nothing else in the world matters. Like everything could be falling apart, but as long as she's here, as long as she's touching me, I can survive it.

I shouldn't have called her.

I shouldn't have let her in.

I shouldn't be doing this.

But I need her.

More than I want to admit. More than I can handle.

And right now, I don't care if it's selfish.

I slide my hands up her chest, curling my fingers around the collar of her jacket, holding onto her like she's my anchor, like I'll sink without her. She exhales sharply against my lips, like she's trying to control herself, like she's fighting something inside of her, but I don't want her to. I don't want her to stop.

I tilt my head, pressing deeper into the kiss, and—

"Aurelia."

Her voice is rough, low, full of something I can't name.

She's not kissing me anymore.

She's staring at me, breathing hard, her hands still on my waist but stiff, unmoving, like she's afraid to let go but just as afraid to hold on.

I open my mouth, not even sure what I'm about to say, but she beats me to it.

"What are we doing?"

I freeze.

Reality slams into me like a brick to the chest.

What are we doing?

I swallow, suddenly hyper-aware of how close we are, of the heat of her body, of the way my lips still tingle from hers.

I could lie.

I could tell her it was a mistake.

I could tell her it meant nothing.

But I can't.

Because it did mean something.

It always does.

I take a step back, and the loss of her warmth is instant, unbearable. "I don't know," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "I just—I just needed you."

Luna exhales slowly, running a hand through her hair, looking up at the ceiling like she's asking the universe for patience.

I expect her to say something.

To tell me this can't happen.

To walk out and never look back.

Instead, she reaches out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear, her fingers lingering against my skin for just a second longer than they should.

"Next time," she murmurs, her voice gentler now, "call me before you start crying, okay?"

And just like that, I feel something c***k inside me.

I nod, unable to say anything else.

She looks at me for a long moment, like she's memorizing my face, like she's trying to figure me out, like she's about to say something important—but she never does.

She just steps back, shoves her hands in her jacket pockets, and heads for the window.

I don't stop her.

I don't ask her to stay.

I just stand there, watching as she disappears into the night, my heart pounding, my mind a mess, my lips still burning from her kiss.

And for the first time since she left all those months ago—

I feel alive again.

The silence she leaves behind is deafening.

I stand there, staring at the window she just climbed out of, the curtains still swaying slightly from her departure, like the room itself is reluctant to let her go. My heartbeat is a violent, erratic thing in my chest, each pulse echoing the ghost of her touch, the taste of her lips still lingering on mine.

God, what did I just do?

I press my fingers against my mouth, trying to chase the warmth she left behind, but it's already fading, slipping through my grasp like sand in an hourglass.

I just needed you.

The words replay in my mind over and over, and the more I hear them, the more I hate myself for saying them. It was pathetic. It was selfish. It was—

True.

I do need her.

And I don't know how to stop.

With a shaky breath, I stumble toward my bed and collapse onto it, my hands gripping the sheets like they can somehow ground me, keep me from unraveling.

Everything is wrong.

Everything is a mess.

And worst of all, I don't know if I regret it.

I don't know if I want to.

I stare at the ceiling, trying to push away the storm of emotions threatening to consume me, but the second I close my eyes, I see her.

Luna.

The way she looked at me tonight—sharp and intense, like I was something she couldn't figure out, something she wanted to touch but was afraid to break. The way her hands fit so perfectly against my waist, like they belonged there. The way she kissed me back without hesitation, without restraint, like she had been starving for it just as much as I had.

God.

This is dangerous.

This is so dangerous.

Because no matter how much I try to pretend otherwise, I know the truth.

Luna Moore is my undoing.

She always has been.

And the worst part?

I think I want her to be.

|The Next Morning|

When I wake up, I feel like I've barely slept. My body is heavy, my head is a mess, and my heart—well, my heart is still somewhere in Luna's hands, whether she knows it or not.

I groan, rolling over and grabbing my phone from the nightstand. No messages. No missed calls. No Luna.

Not that I expected one.

She doesn't do things like that.

She shows up, wrecks me, and leaves.

That's how it's always been.

That's how it has to be.

I sigh and push myself up, rubbing my face as I try to shake off the memories of last night. It doesn't work. Of course it doesn't.

Because deep down, I don't want to forget.

I want to relive it.

Every second.

Every touch.

Every stolen breath.

I shake my head and get out of bed, heading toward the bathroom. I need a shower. A distraction. Something to snap me out of this Luna-induced haze before I completely lose my mind.

But just as I step into the hallway, I hear voices downstairs.

And not just any voices.

My parents.

And they don't sound happy.

My stomach twists.

I shouldn't be surprised. After last night, after the way my mother slapped me, I knew there would be consequences. I just didn't expect them to come this soon.

I inch closer, careful not to make any noise, and peek down the stairs. My father is pacing, his hands clenched into fists, his face tight with frustration. My mother sits on the couch, her arms crossed, her expression cold as ice.

"—is unacceptable," my father is saying, his voice low but filled with authority. "I won't have our daughter sneaking out at night like some delinquent."

"She's been acting out too much lately," my mother adds, her tone sharp, clipped. "First the attitude, now this? And don't forget who she was with."

I tense.

She means Luna.

She knows.

My pulse skyrockets, panic setting in as I press myself against the wall, out of sight.

"She needs a firm hand," my father says. "She needs to be reminded of who she is."

Who I am.

Who they want me to be.

I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.

This isn't just about sneaking out. This isn't about breaking curfew.

This is about them trying to control me.

About them trying to force me back into the perfect little box they've built for me, the one where I'm their good Christian daughter, where I date boys and smile politely and pretend I don't ache for something more, for something real, for her.

For Luna.

I close my eyes, swallowing hard.

I can't do this anymore.

I can't keep pretending.

Not when last night proved that no matter how much I try to push her away, no matter how much distance I try to put between us, Luna will always be a part of me.

And I don't know if I have the strength to fight it anymore.