LUNA'S POV
It was raining outside my lecture hall — the kind of rain that makes you question every life decision that led you to 8 AM classes and wet socks.
Everywhere felt gloomy. Boring. Depressingly Steven-less.
I slouched in my seat, casually scrolling through my phone and half-wishing the building would just flood so we could all go home early.
I was chatting with Hazel.
Hazel: "I saw him again today. Black hoodie. Resting murder face. I'd let him ruin me."
Me: "Seek help."
Hazel: "Help? Babe, I'm looking for his Playlist."
I huffed a quiet laugh, tapping back an exaggerated eye-roll emoji. Still smiling faintly, I leaned back, watching the rain slide dramatically down the window.
Suddenly the air shifted — you know that weird sixth sense you get when someone familiar walks in?
I turned to see Steven.
My face lit up like a Christmas tree plugged into unstable flow of current.
"Hey, Luna," he grinned.
"Captain Underpants is here to save me from this soggy emotional disaster of a day," I said, hopping up dramatically.
"You're ridiculous, Luna." He shook his head, already grabbing my hand like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Let's go. You look like if you spend one more second in here you'll start making friendship bracelets out of your own hair."
I burst into laughter, slinging my tote bag over my shoulder and trotting behind him. We reached the entrance and—surprise!—still raining like the sky was having a breakdown.
"Want a piggy—"
Before he could finish, I leapt onto his back like I'd been training for it my whole life.
"Piggyback. Piggyback!" I chanted in the most embarrassingly babyish voice I could manage. He just laughed.
"Get ready for the splashiest Olympic sprint of your life," he warned.
And just like that, he dashed into the rain — me screaming like a wet, panicked toddler on a rollercoaster, clutching his shoulders for dear life.
By the time we made it to his car, we were both soaked and breathless, looking like two survivors of a dramatic low-budget romcom.
After a long stretch of comfortable silence, Steven finally piped up, "Hey, there's gonna be a rager tonight."
My head snapped toward him. "Wait, really?"
He grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Oh yeah. And you know what that means…"
He wiggled his eyebrows dramatically like he was pitching a movie trailer titled PureChaos: ThePrequel.
I gasped, already matching his energy. "Mischieeeef!"
"MISCHIEF!!!" we both shouted in sync, throwing our hands up like two over-caffeinated six-year-olds.
We dissolved into laughter, drawing a few confused glances from afar. Steven pointed at me, shaking his head.
"You're so pathetic," he said, chuckling.
I wiped a fake tear. "We're so pathetic."
He leaned back, still grinning. "Yeah… tragically pathetic. But at least we're in it together."
I raised a dramatic fist to the sky. "To mutual downfall!"
He raised his own. "To mutual downfall!"
Later That Night – At the Rager
The building was already vibrating from the bass when we pulled up — the kind of beat that made your organs question their life choices. Colored lights spun across the lawn like an aggressive disco octopus, and someone was already doing cartwheels on the roof.
Steven turned to me, hoodie half-zipped, eyes gleaming like a raccoon with a master plan. "Are you ready to be a menace to society?"
I smirked, pulling my hoodie over my head like I was preparing for battle. "Born ready."
We fist-bumped.
Mission: Chaos was officially a go.
***
Mischief Step One: Operation Glitter Bomb
Steven handed me the suspicious-looking balloon we'd filled with about a pound of biodegradable glitter. "Target: loud guy by the keg," he whispered like we were spies behind enemy lines.
I casually sauntered over, pretending to check my phone. Then — pop.
The dude was suddenly the human embodiment of a disco ball.
"WHO DID THAT?!" he bellowed.
I skipped off. Steven casually turned his back and sipped his drink like he'd never even heard of glitter.
Mischief Step Two: The Great Speaker Switch
"Now?" I whispered.
Steven nodded.
We slipped past the dancing crowd toward the massive speakers and switched the Bluetooth. Five seconds later, instead of heavy trap music, Barney's I Love You started blasting at full volume.
The whole room paused.
The DJ looked like he just witnessed a war crime.
Steven and I burst into chaotic laughter behind a curtain of strangers.
"Why are we like this?" I gasped.
"Because therapy's expensive," he replied, deadpan.
Mischief Step Three: The Disappearing Drink Trick
One by one, Steven made cups disappear from a particularly cocky group of partygoers. I was the distraction — all hair flips and fake compliments — while he stealthily swapped their drinks with juice boxes.
"Hey, this tastes like Capri—"
"Shhh," I whispered dramatically, pressing a finger to the guy's lips. "Let the nostalgia flow."
By the time we crashed on a couch, breathless from laughter and sugar-rushed from stolen marshmallows, we were absolutely buzzing with that perfect kind of chaos energy.
"This…" Steven said, stretching his arms over the couch, "was legendary."
"We should write a book," I replied.
"How to be Annoying and Fabulous in 10 Steps," he offered.
"Step One: Beus."
We high-fived.
Somewhere in the distance, a very angry voice shouted, "WHO PUT CHEESE IN THE SHOWER?!"
Steven grinned. "Bonus round?"
I stood up. "Let's ruin more lives."
Steven and I darted down the hallway, nearly tripping over a passed-out unicorn onesie (don't ask), stifling our laughter.
"We are so getting banned," I wheezed.
"Banned?" Steven scoffed. "We should be getting awards!"
He handed me the last item in our Mischief Arsenal — a bright green bucket of ooze.
"Final act, Slimy Symphony," he whispered dramatically. "Go. Become legend."
"Copy that, Commander Chaos," I whispered, saluting with two fingers and tiptoeing up the spiral stairs to the balcony like a totally unhinged ninja.
I reached the top, clutching the bucket and trying not to laugh as I saw the group of glittering, shrieking party girls dancing in perfect formation below.
But then—
I stopped.
My mischief radar went dead.
Because someone else was already up there.
Standing silently in the shadows, leaning on the railing, back turned to me like he was carved out of the night itself.
Hardin.
Just there.
Alone.
The muted lights from below flickered across his usual white shirt, effortlessly folded up just below his elbows. His arms rested on the railing, veins subtly tracing his forearms, watch glinting under the dim glow. His posture calm. Too calm.
I didn't move.
Didn't dare.
But he spoke. Voice smooth and low.
"Done causing chaos?"
I froze.
Bucket still in hand.
Who? Me?
His voice wasn't accusing, just... unbothered. Deep. Slow. Like he knew I was there before I even arrived.
"I—is it t—that o—obvious?" I stammered, clutching the bucket tighter like it might protect me from the embarrassment crawling up my neck.
He still hadn't turned.
"Only if you're watching it from up," he finally said, then slowly — so very slowly — turned to face me.
That smirk.
That dangerous, lazy, I-know-exactly-what-I'm-doing-to-your-heartbeat smirk.
The kind that made the air spin a little. Or maybe that was just the leftover Capri-Sun I drank from someone's purse earlier.
I was suddenly hyper-aware of how stupid I probably looked: messy hoodie, cheeks flushed, and holding a literal bucket of slime like a cartoon villain who forgot her script.
He stepped toward me, each step so casual yet heavy with quiet amusement.
"Are you gonna dump that on someone," he asked, glancing at the bucket, "or just stand there and let your reputation rot?"
I blinked. "U-uh…"
"Because if you're not gonna use it…" he leaned in slightly, voice dropping, "I know a few people downstairs who deserve it."
I stared.
At him.
At the bucket.
Back at him.
He raised a brow like this was a very serious moral dilemma.
I stared blankly at him.
God, why did he make chaos feel… poetic?