luna
“Okay, everyone,” I murmured calmly, even though my thighs were burning. “Go ahead and move into your center position. Let your palms rest gently on your knees, sit tall, take a deep breath in, hold for five, and release.”
I smiled into the camera, watching as the live-viewer count started to drop off. One by one, the usernames blinked out, waves of virtual goodbyes in the comments. I gave a soft bow of thanks and whispered “Namaste” before ending the stream.
I stayed there for a second, legs crossed, body grounded, the hem of my bra top riding up just slightly against the curve of my ribs.
This used to be my studio. Well, not mine, but the one I used to manage when Nova and I first moved to London. The owners still let me rent it out when I needed a quiet space to film. It was a perfect backdrop with its high vaulted ceilings, warm oak floors, and tall windows that let in the softest early morning light. It was tucked just off a side street in Marylebone.
Thankfully, it was only me in here. No crew. No Will. Just my mat, the camera, and a rack of bright new sets from the athletic brand I’d partnered with—high-rise leggings, longline bras, bold prints that hugged all my curves. The collab had blown up. A few viral clips, a “body-positive baddie” headline, and suddenly, I was everywhere.
I stood slowly, stretching out my spine, letting my arms rise overhead, then fall. My skin was warm, but the air was cool.
My phone buzzed, and I glanced toward the little shelf where I’d left it, still catching my breath and wiping sweat off my chest.
One ring.
Two.
No onecalledme anymore, unless it was scheduled. Usually it was a brand or my agent or Nova FaceTiming me because Scarlette had done something unhinged with a glue stick again.
I padded over slowly, bare feet slapping the polished wood floor, already running through a checklist of things that might’ve caused my phone to spontaneously betray me like this.
Dirks.
My stomach dropped so hard I almost checked the floor for it.
There was no fucking way.
No. Absolutelynot. I must’ve overheated. Maybe I’d stayed in pigeon pose too long and starved my brain of oxygen. Maybe this was one of those heat stroke hallucinations they warned you about in CPR training. Should I call Nova? Tell her to take me to the hospital?
Nope.
It wasstillringing.
“Shit,” I breathed.
I . . . stood there.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. We didn’t call each other out of nowhere.
What if something was wrong and something happened?
My hand hovered above the screen.
I needed to answer it before it went to voicemail, right?
Right?
Fuck.
Why the hell did this man still have the power to make me feel like I was standing on the edge of something with no clue if I was supposed to jump—or run?
With my pulse in my throat, I pressedAcceptwithout thinking twice about Will.
“Dirks? Is this really?—?”
“Hey, Luna girl.”
