As Luna drifted back into sleep, she caught the faint sounds of Pine Hollow arguing over something about her well-being.

  At her old house, no one noticed when she fell.

  Here, she couldn’t sneeze without causing a panic.

  The ache in her chest loosened, just a little.

  Maybe… she wasn’t an object here.

  Maybe she mattered.

  The sleep was quick, but it was deeper—heavy with medicine, warmth, and the strange comfort of knowing she wasn’t alone even when no one was in the room.

  And yet, she never truly was.

  Because people came in waves.

  Between classes. Between training sessions. Between moments they pretended not to worry.

  Bluebell and Florence were the first, slipping in with a suspicious-looking bouquet, presenting stolen flowers from the school garden.

  “That one still has roots. If anyone asks, it is already dying.”

  Reid confiscated them within five minutes.

  Bridget came later, quiet as snowfall. She hesitated at the door, then stepped in and gently placed The Lost Storm on Luna’s bedside.

  “It was sitting on your nightstand,” she said softly. “I figured… you might want something familiar.”

  Luna smiled, drowsy and grateful.

  Abel arrived at lunch with soup again, this time thicker, heartier. Something designed to stick to ribs and souls alike.

  “Eat,” he said simply. “Recovery runs on fuel.”

  Eve drifted in sometime after, half-awake as usual, arms full of wrapped snacks.

  She put them down one by one, methodically.

  Then, after staring at Luna for a long moment, she murmured, “Still breathing. Good,” and wandered right back out.

  Abby came in the afternoon with a folded bundle of clean clothes.

  “For when you feel less… tragic,” she offered gently.

  Blake followed Abby in like an echo.

  Finian followed Blake. “We tried brewing anti-fever potion for you but Francis discarded it right away.”

  Luna laughed weakly. It hurt her throat but warmed her heart a bit.

  Francis and Reid returned together every few hours, checking temperature, pulse, breath, pupils. Adjusting medicine. Whispering arguments in the corner about whether Luna looked “less alarming” or merely “strategically deceptive.”

  Time softened into something hazy and slow.

  The late afternoon light spilled through the window in long amber slants, warming the room. Luna sat propped against the pillows, blanket pooled around her legs, flipping another page of The Lost Storm with quiet concentration.

  The door creaked.

  Ermin stepped inside.

  Luna’s heart jumped straight into her throat.

  She snapped the book shut and shoved it under the blanket so fast the pages rustled sharply. The back cover flashed upward for just a second before disappearing beneath the fabric.

  Too fast.

  Too obvious.

  Ermin paused.

  His eyes drifted—not to Luna’s face, but to the slight, unnatural lump beneath the blanket. Then to the corner of the dark cover still peeking out.

  Then his gaze softened.

  He moved to the chair beside the bed and sat, folding his hands loosely in his lap.

  “Just checking on you,” he said gently. “You gave the house quite a fright.”

  Luna swallowed and nodded. “I’m just sick, sir.”

  “Yes.” His smile held warmth, but something thoughtful lingered beneath it. “Sick… and carrying more than one storm, I suspect.”

  She looked down at her hands.

  “Look. I know there’s a lot happening in your life right now,” Ermin continued quietly. “Trey’s problems, though I appreciate the patience you have with him, and the news about your old home.”

  The words still felt unreal when spoken aloud.

  “If you ever feel like talking,” he added, “or venting… you know where to find me.”

  Luna lifted her eyes. “Thank you, sir.”

  He stood, pausing at the door. Then, over his shoulder, with the faintest glimmer of humor—

  “But do remember—talk and vent are acceptable. If you feel like yelling, however…”

  His lips twitched.

  “I strongly recommend you go to the nearest Lancaster you can find.”

  A surprised laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it.

  Ermin gave her a final, gentle look—one that lingered just a second longer on the blanket, then quietly left the room.

  The evening slipped by in a soft, repeating rhythm.

  Luna slept.

  Woke to find some of the Pines at her bedside.

  Drifted off again.

  Woke to another.

  The room never stayed empty for long.

  Only one person never appeared.

  Trey.

  Not once.

  Not since the morning.

  And everyone who came in said some version of the same thing.

  “We love you, Luna. But please get better soon.”

  “Can you be back to normal by tomorrow?”

  “Please be well already.”

  “You should recover quickly,” Ermin added gently.

  That last one made something twist in her chest.

  “…Why?” Luna asked faintly.

  The entire house groaned as one.

  “Because,” Blake said solemnly, “we cannot survive Lancaster another day.”

  “Please. Take. Him. Back.” Bluebell pleaded.

  This time, everyone nodded in perfect, exhausted unison.

  Luna managed a weak snort.

  Then, quietly, she asked,

  “Speaking of the chaos… where is Trey? I haven’t seen him all day.”

  It was strange.

  Too strange.

  Damn it! Am I missing that idiot right now?

  Ermin’s mouth twitched. “He’s restrained.”

  “I beg your par—”

  “We agreed it was for your own good,” Francis cut in. “You know how clingy and unserious he becomes. Not ideal for recovery.”

  Her chest felt unexpectedly hollow.

  “Oh.”

  Somehow, that was a relief too. Because with the way everyone was acting, she’d honestly started to suspect someone had already murdered him.

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  Violently.

  And with strong intent.

  Then Ermin added, almost dryly,

  “At least one of us has to keep an eye on him at all times. But, he’s been exceptionally… dedicated to being annoying today. By tomorrow, the house may explode.”

  She huffed softly. “That bad?”

  Considering it was Trey Lancaster, her question was completely pointless.

  Since when has he ever stayed anywhere below catastrophic?

  Reid patted her shoulder and herded everyone toward the door.

  “Rest well, Luna. And remember—”

  She pointed sternly.

  “Get. Better. Soon.”

  The room finally emptied.

  The quiet that followed was unfamiliar. Too wide. Too soft.

  And with it came a strange, persistent ache of missing someone she absolutely refused to admit she was missing.

  But as usual, Pine Hollow never allowed loneliness to last.

  Ten minutes later, the door creaked.

  And Trey slipped in like a criminal returning to the scene of an unsolved crime.

  Hair messy.

  Shirt crooked.

  Expression smug with hard-won triumph.

  “That,” he whispered proudly, “was the hardest infiltration of my life.”

  Luna’s eyes lit despite herself. “How did you even get past them?”

  He sat beside her bed and gently placed a notebook into her hands.

  She blinked. “What’s this?”

  “Your answer. And something way better than that dramatic novel my dad gave you.”

  Suspicious already, Luna opened the notebook.

  The first few pages were chaos.

  Doodles she’d seen a hundred times,

  half-formed diagrams,

  phrases that looked disturbingly like Francis’s handwriting… but bent wrong, like someone had tried to copy and failed.

  She flipped faster. Annoyance rising.

  “Trey, what is—”

  Then the format changed.

  The handwriting shifted.

  Clean.

  Disciplined.

  Beautiful in a way that made no sense for the human disaster sitting beside her to own it.

  And someone like Francis wrote like… whatever his handwriting was supposed to be?

  Her breath stilled as she read the header.

  FIELD NOTES OF TREY LANCASTER

  Codename: The Mischievous Mastermind

  Operation: Infiltrate the Isolation Room Without Being Sedated, Scolded, or Emotionally Ruined.

  Status: Ongoing.

  Risk Level: Catastrophic.

  For a second, Luna didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  Slowly, she looked up.

  “…You wrote yourself a codename.”

  Trey grinned, completely unashamed.

  “Of course I did. Great plans deserve great titles.”

  Her lips twitched despite herself.

  And as she lowered her eyes back to the page, still smiling—

  She realized this notebook wasn’t just a joke.

  It was a map of his stubborn devotion.

  And somehow, impossibly, that made her chest ache in the best way.

  “Turn the page,” he urged.

  She did.

  TARGET 1: FRANCIS CREEK — THE GRUMPY WARDEN

  Obstacle Level: Extreme

  Threats: Lectures, scolding, emotional manipulation

  Strategy:

  -Asked him seventeen unnecessary medical questions.

  -Pretended to mislabel herbs.

  -Pretended to be fascinated by herbal ratios.

  Result: He became too tired to monitor me effectively. Temporary escape achieved.

  Note: He suspects. Always.

  Luna covered her mouth with trembling fingers.

  “You… interrogated Francis on purpose?”

  “It was exhausting for both of us.” Trey shrugged. “At some point, I ran out of herb names and actually said the leafy leaf. The man judged me for five whole minutes.”

  She giggled, then turned another page.

  TARGET 2: REID TURNER — THE RED SNAPPER

  Obstacle Level: Legendary

  Threats: Fire, fists, moral lectures

  Strategy:

  -Insisted on ratting out to Francis about her new “blisters.”

  -Argued for twenty minutes about sponge-bathing ethics.

  -Let her think she won.

  Result: She believes she crushed my spirit.

  Note: She did not.

  Luna raised an eyebrow. “Sponge bath?”

  “Not important.” Trey stuttered. “Keep going.”

  TARGET 3: BRIDGET HODGSON— THE TRAPPER

  Obstacle Level: Medium

  Threats: Silent judgment, surprise weapons

  Strategy:

  -Pretended my gear broke in front of her.

  -Asked for fashion advice.

  -Tried to help her draft a blueprint.

  Result: She kicked me out (literally) of the workshop.

  Quote: “Go be a problem somewhere else.”

  By the time Luna reached the next few entries, she was laughing into her blanket, shoulders shaking with soft, breathless amusement.

  This was ridiculous.

  This was exhausting.

  This was so him it hurt.

  TARGET 4: BLAKE ASHFORD - THE MIGHTY

  Objective: Distract, provoke, survive.

  Method: Challenged him to a fistfight.

  Outcome: Do not ask what happened to my right eye.

  Desperation tactic: Told him Abby smiled at me today.

  Result: He chased me for six straight minutes. I ran. He ran faster.

  Final maneuver: Locked him inside Abby’s room.

  Note: He walked in willingly. Didn’t even resist. What a fool.

  TARGET 5: EVE ATHENTON - THE ANCIENT

  Objective: Do not disturb.

  -Went to ask her a very annoying question to ensure she’d stop tracking me.

  -She fell asleep mid-sentence. Standing. With her eyes open.

  -I fled.

  Note: She was IMPRESSIVE.

  TARGET 6: ABEL WHITMORE - THE GENTLE HERO

  Objective: Redirect the knight.

  -Told him Bluebell and Florence were planning a “catastrophic charade.” in the backyard.

  -He didn’t even ask what that meant.

  -He sprinted out of the hallway like a soldier heading into war.

  Status: Freed instantly.

  TARGET 7: BLUEBELL BOUQUET- THE DISASTER MACHINE

  Objective: Bribery and manipulation. (Dad’s strategy.)

  -Traded her Abel’s secret weakness.

  -Very fair deal. Extremely strategic.

  Note: Abel will never forgive me if she finds out it’s lilac perfume.

  Status: Delighted. Unleashed upon the world. Exactly as planned.

  FINAL OBSTACLE: ERMIN SPANGLEY - THE TIRED SCHOLAR

  Obstacle Level: Unknown. Last Boss I haven’t won yet. Not once. What a shame.

  Strategy:

  -Ask him about his life choices.

  -Quoted him back at himself.

  -Pretended to be studying. (I was not.)

  -He saw through it.

  -Still let me go.

  Quote: “Lancaster, please go… exist somewhere else.”

  Note: I suspect he wanted peace more than justice.

  CONCLUSION

  -Success.

  -Everyone now hates me slightly more.

  -Worth it.

  Luna stared at the last page, torn between laughter and guilt.

  “…This is horrible,” she whispered.

  Trey grinned. “You’re welcome.”

  She shook her head weakly. “You annoyed the entire house.”

  “Yes.”

  “On purpose.”

  “Yes.”

  “So they’d stop watching you.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you could come see me.”

  Trey met her eyes without joking now.

  Without bravado.

  Without shields.

  “Yes.”

  Her chest tightened.

  “…I still feel bad for them.”

  He leaned closer. “They’ll live.”

  Then she whispered, softer than intended,

  “…Thank you.”

  He smiled like he’d just won something priceless.

  Francis finally wiped his hands on a cloth, exhausted after putting away the apparatus he used for his new extraction. He headed back toward the hallway, mentally preparing to lecture Trey again for existing.

  He opened his own door, glanced inside, frowned.

  Something was off.

  He hadn’t seen Trey along the way here either.

  Not in the workshop.

  Not in the kitchen.

  Not in the common room where people would bark at him.

  “Oh no,” Francis whispered.

  He spun on his heel and hurried down the hall, medical instincts already firing alarms.

  Trey missing + Luna sick = disaster.

  He reached the isolation room—

  lifted a hand to throw the door open—

  then froze.

  Because from inside, he heard it.

  A laugh.

  Luna’s laugh.

  Soft. Warm. Alive.

  “…Oh,” Francis breathed.

  His hand slowly dropped back to his side.

  For a long moment, the young healer just stood there, staring at the door as if it had personally insulted him.

  “Well,” he murmured. “Doctors can be wrong sometimes.”

  A faint snort echoed from inside — Trey, saying something smug and stupid no doubt. Luna giggled again.

  Francis sighed, long and slow as he turned around and walked away with the weary acceptance of a man admitting defeat not medically, but emotionally.

  “If she’s laughing,” he muttered, “she’s recovering. And that… is technically my job done.”

  He paused mid-hallway, added under his breath,

  “…I’ll check on them in ten minutes anyway.”

  And with the tiniest smile tugging at his lips, Francis finally let them be.