"That's my girl."
The thought comes before I can stop it.
Before logic catches up.
Before control reminds me who I am supposed to be in this room.
But it's there anyway.
Sharp. Immediate. Unfiltered.
And for a moment, I just watch her.
Luna.
Sitting at that table like she wasn't just recovering from being shot weeks ago. Like she didn't just step into a room full of people who've been making decisions about her safety, her future, her place in all of this.
She didn't hesitate.
She didn't soften her words.
She didn't look for approval.
She simply took control of the space like it was always hers.
And somehow—
It is.
The room is still quiet after she speaks.
Not the respectful kind of quiet.
The recalculating kind.
My father shifts slightly in his seat.
My grandfather studies her longer than usual.
My mother remains composed, but her eyes have changed focus.
Adrian doesn't look surprised at all. That part irritates me more than I expect.
And Zade… looks like he's counting down the seconds until he can leave this planet.
Luna leans back in her chair like she owns the oxygen in the room.
"I am not a puppet," she had said.
Not loud.
Not emotional.
Just final.
And that is what makes it land harder than any argument.
Because people expect her to be fragile after what happened.
They expect silence.
Recovery.
Dependency.
Instead, she came back sharper.
Stronger in the way that actually matters in this world.
Not physically.
But mentally.
I should be annoyed.
Technically, I am.
Because she interrupted a structured discussion.
Because she challenged the flow of negotiation.
Because she put herself directly into the center of something that is still unstable.
But I'm not annoyed.
Not really.
There's something else sitting underneath it.
Something heavier.
Pride.
And I hate how automatic it is.
She turns her gaze slightly toward me.
Not soft.
Not emotional.
Just direct.
Equal.
That's what hits the most.
Not the words.
Not the defiance.
The equality in it.
"We are not discussing ownership," she said.
No.
We aren't.
We never were supposed to be.
But in this world, perception bends everything.
And people like my father and grandfather don't think in equality.
They think in structure.
In control.
In influence.
In risk.
Luna is currently classified in their minds as all three.
And that's the problem.
I sit back slightly in my chair, keeping my expression neutral.
Because if I react too openly, the room will shift again.
And I don't want that.
Not yet.
Not when she is already standing her ground this strongly.
My grandfather finally speaks.
"She is direct," he says simply.
As if it's a trait to be measured.
Noted.
Filed.
My father responds more carefully. "That level of autonomy complicates planning."
Adrian scoffs softly. "Welcome to knowing her."
Luna shoots him a sharp look.
He ignores it.
Of course he does.
I finally speak.
Not immediately.
Not emotionally.
Controlled.
"As she said," I begin calmly. "She is not a puppet."
My eyes briefly flick toward her.
Just once.
Then back to the table.
"But she is still part of the structure we are maintaining."
A pause.
Careful wording.
Because truth matters here.
But timing matters more.
My mother nods slightly, understanding the balance I'm trying to maintain.
My grandfather leans forward just a fraction. "Structure requires predictability."
I respond without hesitation. "Then we adjust the structure."
That earns a brief silence.
Not disagreement.
Evaluation.
Luna doesn't look at me again.
But I can feel it.
The awareness.
She knows I'm not contradicting her.
I'm redirecting the conversation around her stance, not against it.
That's intentional.
Because she needs space to exist in this room without becoming an object of negotiation again.
And I won't allow her to be reduced to that.
Not now.
Not after everything.
Zade shifts slightly in his seat.
"I still think I should be in math class," he mutters under his breath.
No one acknowledges him.
Probably for the best.
My father speaks again, slower this time. "Public perception still requires alignment. The engagement event is still necessary."
Luna doesn't react immediately.
But I notice the subtle shift in her posture.
She heard it.
Of course she did.
She always hears the parts people try to soften.
My grandfather adds, "Bigger event. Controlled narrative. Reinforced alliance."
I can feel the direction of this conversation tightening again.
Back toward structure.
Back toward planning her visibility.
Her role.
Her placement.
And I already know what she'll do if it goes too far.
She'll push back again.
Harder.
But instead of letting it escalate, I speak first.
Calmly.
"We proceed," I say.
A pause.
Then I add, "But not without her awareness and input."
All eyes shift slightly toward me.
Because that is the compromise line.
Not submission.
Not rebellion.
Balance.
Adrian watches me carefully now.
He understands what I'm doing.
So does my grandfather.
My mother says nothing, but she doesn't object.
That is also an answer.
Luna finally looks at me again.
Longer this time.
Not soft.
Not angry.
Just assessing.
Like she's trying to understand whether I am agreeing with her… or controlling the situation in a different way.
She won't find a simple answer.
Because there isn't one.
The room slowly returns to controlled discussion.
Plans.
Adjustments.
Security expansions.
Event restructuring.
But underneath all of it, something has shifted.
Not loudly.
Not visibly.
But permanently.
Because Luna didn't just speak.
She positioned herself.
And no one in this room can ignore that anymore.
Not even them.
Not even me.
As the conversation continues, I find my attention drifting back to her again.
Just briefly.
She sits there like she belongs in every version of this world we're trying to build.
And that thought—
"That's my girl"—
returns again.
Not as ownership.
Not as possession.
But as recognition.
Of strength.
Of presence.
Of someone who refuses to be reduced.
And for once in a long time—
I don't try to suppress it.