How the hell did my late stepmother give me such a dramatic sister?
I swear—
sometimes I look at Luna and genuinely wonder if we grew up in the same house.
Same walls.
Same rules.
Same world.
And yet—
somewhere along the way, she turned into… this.
A walking storm of emotions, sarcasm, stubbornness, and absolutely unnecessary dramatics.
God help me.
I lean back slightly against the wall outside her hospital room, exhaling slowly as I run a hand over my face.
Three weeks.
Three weeks of this.
Three weeks of watching her fight doctors, argue with nurses, threaten to walk out like she's not recovering from a gunshot wound.
And today?
Today she upgraded.
From annoyed patient—
to full performance mode.
I saw it the moment I walked in.
The pacing.
The "casual" standing.
The soft voice.
The fake fragile expression like she's auditioning for a tragic role.
If I didn't know her—
it might've worked.
Might've.
But I raised her.
Not by blood.
But by everything that actually matters.
I know every version of her.
The quiet one.
The angry one.
The one that pretends she doesn't care.
And the one today—
the dramatic, manipulative, absolutely ridiculous one trying to emotionally blackmail me into letting her go home.
I almost laugh.
Almost.
Because for a second—
just a second—
it felt normal.
Like before all of this.
Before the blood.
Before the gunshot.
Before I had to stand in a hospital hallway wondering if I was about to lose the only person I have left.
My jaw tightens slightly at the thought.
That image—
it doesn't leave.
No matter how much I push it down.
Luna on that floor.
Too still.
Too pale.
And for the first time in years—
I didn't feel in control.
I felt… helpless.
I hate that feeling.
I don't do helpless.
I don't do uncertainty.
I don't do fear.
But that night—
it was all of it.
And now she stands there, arguing with me about going home like none of that happened.
Like it was just another bad day.
Like she didn't almost—
I stop the thought immediately.
No.
Not going there.
Not again.
I straighten slightly, pushing myself off the wall.
Because no matter how dramatic she gets—
she's still healing.
And I'm not letting her rush that.
Not for her impatience.
Not for her frustration.
Not even for her anger.
She can hate me for it.
She probably already does.
But I'd rather deal with that—
than risk anything happening to her again.
I step back into the room.
She's still there.
Arms crossed now.
Looking at me like she's already won something.
I almost shake my head.
Unbelievable.
"You're not leaving today," I say simply.
Her eyes narrow immediately.
"Adrian—"
"No."
She exhales sharply, throwing her hands up.
"You said you'd talk to the doctor!"
"I said we'd talk."
"That means there's a chance!"
"That means I'll listen," I correct.
"Same thing!"
"Not even close."
Kiara snorts again from the side, clearly enjoying this far more than she should.
I glance at her briefly.
"You're not helping."
She smiles innocently. "I'm neutral."
"You're entertained."
"Also true."
I look back at Luna.
She's already pacing again.
Of course she is.
"You're impossible," I tell her.
"And yet you love me," she shoots back instantly.
I pause.
Just for a second.
Because she says it so easily.
So casually.
Like it's obvious.
Like it's not something I've spent years protecting by keeping distance, by keeping things controlled, by not letting anything get too close.
But with her—
it was never a choice.
I sigh quietly.
"Sit down," I say.
"No."
"Luna—"
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
"I am!"
"You're walking like you're negotiating with gravity."
Kiara laughs.
Luna glares at her.
"Whose side are you on?!"
"I told you—I'm neutral!"
I rub my temple, already feeling a headache forming.
This is what my life has become.
Crime families.
Power plays.
Threats.
And this—
this chaos.
And somehow—
this is harder to deal with.
I look at Luna again.
Really look at her.
She does look better.
Stronger.
Not fully healed—but close.
Close enough to start arguing like this, at least.
But I also see it.
The slight tension in her posture.
The way she favors one side without realizing it.
The exhaustion she's trying to hide behind attitude.
She's not ready.
Not yet.
And I won't gamble with that.
Not again.
"You'll go home," I say finally.
Her expression shifts instantly.
Hope.
Too fast.
Too bright.
"But not today," I add.
And just like that—
it's gone.
Replaced with irritation.
"Adrian—"
"Soon," I cut in. "When the doctors clear you. When I'm sure you won't collapse the moment you step outside."
"I won't collapse!"
"You almost did ten minutes ago."
"That was a moment!"
"That was gravity winning."
Kiara is now fully laughing, trying and failing to hide it.
Luna looks like she's about to throw something at both of us.
I almost smile.
Almost.
Because this—
this is her.
Alive.
Fighting.
Annoying.
Loud.
Not silent.
Not still.
Not—
I stop that thought again.
Focus.
Control.
Always control.
I step closer to her, lowering my voice slightly.
"You're going home," I repeat. "Just not like this."
She studies my face.
Trying to find something.
A weakness.
An opening.
She won't.
Not here.
Not when it comes to this.
Her shoulders drop slightly.
Not defeat.
But acceptance.
Temporary.
"I hate you," she mutters.
I nod.
"I know."
A pause.
Then, quieter—
"You'll thank me later."
She rolls her eyes dramatically. "Unlikely."
Kiara grins. "Highly unlikely."
I shake my head, turning slightly away from them.
But before I step out again—
I glance back.
Just once.
Because no matter how much she drives me insane—
no matter how dramatic, stubborn, or reckless she gets—
she's still here.
Still standing.
Still arguing with me.
And that—
that's enough.
For now.
God really does have a strange sense of humor.
Because out of everything in my life—
the one thing I can't control—
is also the one thing I'd burn the world to protect.