Luna Lucky

4

Resting in Something New

The weight of the night clung to me in the best way, like a favorite sweater pulled tight against the cold. It was strange—sitting here with Will, eating strawberries that tasted like promises, and feeling like I’d somehow wandered into a story that wasn’t mine.

I leaned back, letting the cool breeze sweep over us. Above, the stars blinked, watching silently like they were holding secrets just for us.

Will sat beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed whenever he shifted. He was telling me another story—something about planting wildflowers for a neighbor who wanted to bring bees back to her garden—but I was only half-listening. It wasn’t that I didn’t care. I did. I cared too much, maybe. That was the problem.

I glanced at him, studying the way his mismatched eyes caught the glow of the string lights. One brown, deep and steady like the earth. The other blue, strikingly vivid, with a faint scar running across it like a forgotten storm. It made him look rugged, like someone who had fought for every inch of ground he stood on.

I didn’t realize I’d moved until my head was resting against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat filled the space between us, grounding me in a way I hadn’t felt in years.

Will’s voice faltered mid-sentence. “Well,” he said after a moment, his tone laced with quiet amusement, “I guess I’m Will-ing to have my Lucky rest her soul on my chest.”

It was so bad—so unbelievably cheesy—that I couldn’t help but laugh. A real laugh. One that bubbled up before I could stop it and left me breathless.

“You’re ridiculous,” I said, swatting weakly at his arm.

“Maybe,” he replied, his chest rumbling with a low chuckle. “But I’m still your ridiculous.”

The words settled between us, wrapping around the quiet like a warm blanket. I didn’t respond, unsure if I could trust the way they made my heart ache in the best way. Instead, I let myself relax against him, my body sinking into his warmth.

His hand moved tentatively, resting gently against my back, as if afraid he’d spook me. “Comfortable?” he asked softly.

I nodded, closing my eyes. “Yeah.”

And I was. For the first time in forever, I was.

The night stretched on, the silence broken only by the distant hum of the city below and the soft sound of our breathing. I felt the exhaustion creep in slowly, like the tide pulling back after a storm. I didn’t fight it. I couldn’t.

As my eyelids grew heavier, I heard his voice again, quieter this time. “You’re safe now, Lucky,” he murmured. “Whatever you’ve been through… you’re not alone anymore.”

The words followed me into sleep, their weight settling deep in my chest. And for the first time in years, I believed them.

The Tent

When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was the smell—damp earth, faintly tinged with pine and the lingering trace of campfire smoke. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it wasn’t familiar, either.

My eyes snapped open, and I was met with the soft, golden light filtering through the canvas above me. Fabric rustled faintly with every breath of wind, and for a disorienting moment, I forgot how to breathe.

This wasn’t my apartment.

My chest tightened, panic clawing its way up my throat as I sat upright. The sleeping bag tangled around me, adding to the sense of being trapped. “What the—?”

“Lucky, hey—it’s okay.”

Will’s voice cut through the fog of fear, steady and calm but edged with concern. I turned toward him and found him crouched by the entrance of the tent. His mismatched eyes—one brown, one blue with that faint scar that seemed to hold a story of its own—met mine with quiet reassurance. His hands were raised, palms open, like I was a spooked animal he didn’t want to scare off.

“You’re safe,” he said, his tone low and deliberate, like he was trying to speak the panic out of me. “I swear.”

The tension in my chest loosened, just barely, but my heart still pounded. “Where am I? What is this?”

Will shifted on his heels, rubbing the back of his neck—a gesture I was quickly learning meant he was nervous. “It’s… my tent,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, as if that would soften the reality of his words. “You fell asleep on the roof last night, and I didn’t want to wake you. I figured you’d be warmer in here.”

He paused, his lips quirking upward into a crooked smile. “And hey, it’s better than a dog house.”

The absurdity of it caught me off guard, and before I could stop myself, a laugh slipped out. “You’re ridiculous,” I said, shaking my head, though I felt the panic in my chest begin to ease.

“Maybe,” he said, grinning now. “But you laughed, so I’ll take that as a win.”

I glanced around then, taking in the tent. The sleeping bag beneath me was neatly arranged, and a small lantern in the corner cast a warm glow that pushed back the shadows. The faint scent of pine hung in the air, mingling with the earthy smell of the ground beneath us. It was a simple setup, but there was something about it—about the way everything was in its place—that made me pause.

“This…” My voice wavered. “This is where you live?”

Will nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before he looked back at me. His expression was careful, guarded, but not ashamed. “Yeah,” he said, a little quieter this time. “For now.”

I stared at him, my heart twisting painfully in my chest. He wasn’t apologizing or trying to explain himself, but there was a vulnerability in the way he sat there, waiting. Like he thought I might laugh or tell him he wasn’t enough.

But all I felt was a deep ache—an understanding I didn’t know I had. This wasn’t just a tent. It was survival. It was making the best of a hard life and doing it without complaint.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly, my voice trembling as I fought to find the right words.

“For what?” he asked, his brows drawing together.

“For you having to live like this,” I managed, my throat tightening around the lump forming there. “You deserve better.”

He tilted his head, the corners of his lips curving into a small, lopsided smile. There was no bitterness in it, just a quiet acceptance. “It’s not so bad,” he said lightly. “At least the rent’s cheap.”

The joke caught me off guard, and I let out a shaky laugh, blinking back the sting in my eyes. He watched me carefully, his expression softening as he added, “Really, Lucky. I get by.”

But you shouldn’t have to. The thought hung heavy in my mind, but I couldn’t say it—not yet.

An Offer of Home

I didn’t think. The words slipped out before I could stop them.

“You can stay with me.”

Will froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. “What?”

“I have a place,” I said quickly, my hands twisting in my lap. “It’s small, but it’s warm. You wouldn’t have to…” My voice faltered as I gestured to the space around us. “You wouldn’t have to live like this.”

For a moment, he just stared at me, his gaze searching mine like he was trying to figure out if I was serious.

“Lucky,” he said finally, his voice careful. “That’s… that’s a big offer. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” I said, my chest tightening. “You’ve been nothing but good to me, Will. Let me do something good for you.”

The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken questions. Then, slowly, a smile tugged at his lips—soft and boyish, despite the ruggedness of his features.

“Well,” he said, his tone lightening, “I’ll Will-ingly stay with my Lucky.”

I blinked, caught off guard, before a laugh bubbled up from my chest. “You’re impossible,” I said, shaking my head, though I couldn’t stop smiling.

“Maybe,” he replied, his grin widening. “But I’m your impossible.”

The tension in my chest eased, replaced by something warmer, steadier.

Growing Closer

Having Will in my apartment was an adjustment—though not the kind I’d expected. It wasn’t awkward or stifling. Instead, it felt like adding a missing piece to a puzzle I didn’t know I was trying to solve.

Will didn’t sit still for long, which I should’ve guessed. Within hours of moving in, he’d found a crooked cabinet door, pulled out a screwdriver from somewhere, and fixed it before I even realized what he was doing.

“You could’ve just asked me to do it,” I’d said, watching him from the kitchen doorway.

He grinned up at me from where he was crouched. “What can I say? I can’t resist saving damsels in distress… or cabinets in despair.”

I rolled my eyes, but a smile tugged at my lips all the same. It was like that with him—every little thing he did carried that signature mix of humor and care. He’d find the smallest things that needed fixing—a leaky faucet, a squeaky chair—and tackle them with the same quiet determination, as if the world depended on it.

In return, I cooked for us. It wasn’t anything fancy—mostly simple meals cobbled together with whatever I had in the fridge—but the look on his face every time I handed him a plate made me feel like I’d served him a five-star feast.

“Lucky,” he said one night, gesturing dramatically toward a steaming bowl of pasta. “This right here? This is culinary genius. Gordon Ramsay would weep.”

“It’s just spaghetti,” I replied, laughing.

“Spaghetti made with love,” he shot back, twirling a forkful with exaggerated flair. “And a dash of paprika, which, by the way, is chef’s kiss.” He mimed blowing a kiss at the bowl, and I couldn’t help but laugh harder.

We fell into a rhythm that felt easy and natural. Nights were spent curled up on the couch, the glow of the TV casting soft light over the room. Sometimes we watched old movies, his commentary turning even the most serious scenes into something to laugh about. Other times, we just talked—about the odd jobs he’d worked, the places he’d been, and the moments that had shaped him.

“Ever wrestled a raccoon for a bag of Doritos?” he asked once, his voice completely serious.

“No,” I replied, raising an eyebrow. “Have you?”

“Twice,” he said, grinning as he stretched an arm along the back of the couch. “But to be fair, he started it.”

The laughter came easily with him, but there were quieter moments, too. Moments where we didn’t need words at all. We’d sit in silence, the kind that felt like a warm blanket rather than a wall, and just exist together.

We didn’t rush anything, which was something I hadn’t known I needed. Will was patient in a way that surprised me. He let me set the pace, never pushing for more than I was ready to give. At first, it was simple—holding hands while we watched a movie or sitting close enough that his arm rested lightly over my shoulders.

But then there were the quiet nights in the dark. The ones where we lay side by side in my bed, our breathing the only sound in the room. His presence was steady and grounding, like an anchor I didn’t realize I needed. He never asked for more, never made me feel like I owed him anything. And that, more than anything, made me trust him in ways I hadn’t trusted anyone before.

He made me feel safe—like maybe, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t have to guard every part of myself. And that kind of safety? It was something I’d forgotten how to feel.