𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐌𝐞 -- 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐌𝐜𝐊𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭
         𝟎𝟏𝟑: The Thread that Binds
                  (𝘼𝙧𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙚, Stay Ready)

𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 up, it was often hard for her siblings to understand Moon. Mostly, she meant Mylo and Powder. Claggor, steady and kind, had always been the type to pat her shoulder or hand her a piece of candy when words weren't enough. Vi had always seen herself as her self appointed personal bodyguard. But Mylo? Powder? They didn't understand her, not really.

They didn't get why she ate like she was rationing her own survival, carving her meals into delicate, almost apologetic portions that barely counted as sustenance. They didn't get why she would crumble suddenly, shaking like the world itself was crumbling with her, her hands clamped over her ears to drown out the chaos no one else could hear.

They didn't understand why her voice faltered when strangers spoke to her, why her knees seemed to buckle under the weight of eye contact, or why she froze like a wounded animal when someone's voice rose too sharply.

The worst part, though—the part that Mylo found downright unsettling— the scratching. The frantic, desperate clawing at her arms, her hands, her collarbone—like she was trying to peel away invisible fingerprints. Everyone knew why. Or at least, they knew enough to look away. They didn't say the word, the ugly, guttural thing that hung in the air whenever Moon's scars peeked out from her sleeves.

Moon didn't want to say it either. Instead, she'd offer a version of events she believed to be the reality of the situation.

"They injected me with mental illness when I was a baby because they didn't like that I radiated moonlight and had stars inside my eyes," she explained once, her voice calm, her face like a porcelain mask. "They were jealous of me."

Powder, always the believer, always the one to see magic where others saw madness, had nodded solemnly. "That makes sense."

Mylo, as predictable as ever, snorted. "That doesn't even make sense, Moon."

"Your mind is too simple to comprehend it," she'd shot back without missing a beat, disappearing into the safety of her room, leaving Mylo to groan in frustration and Powder to follow her like a shadow.

But Ekko—Ekko always understood. He didn't need explanations. He didn't need her to dress her pain in riddles or wrap it in mythology. He saw her, in all her jagged edges and starlit fractures, and he didn't flinch. He just got her, in a way that no one else did.

When her hands shook too violently to hold a paintbrush, Ekko was the one who set it aside, tugged her close, and let her press her forehead into his chest until the tremors quieted. When she choked on her words, they'd always seem to find their way to his mouth instead, his voice finishing the thought she couldn't.

And when her nails raked at her skin, her fury silent but devastating, Ekko would crouch beside her, steady as stone, and gently take her hands in his own.

"You don't have to fight them alone," he'd murmured once, his voice low, like a secret meant only for her. "I'll fight them for you."

She never thanked him. She didn't have to. Ekko didn't need words to know what her silence meant, the way she leaned into him, the way her hands stilled in his grasp.

It was a language only the two of them spoke, a quiet poetry that existed between their breaths, their glances, their pauses.

And even now, years later, as Moon sat cross-legged on the floor of Powder's workshop, doodling on the back of a scrap blueprint, Ekko felt the same unspoken understanding settle in the room like dust.

She was still Moon—fragile, fierce, burning with battles unseen.

And even now, even always, he would be there, steady as a heartbeat, to make sure she didn't have to fight them alone.

The room smelled faintly of coconut oil and shea butter, the comforting aroma wrapping around them like a warm hug. Moon sat cross-legged on the floor, a towel draped over her shoulders and a pillow behind her back for support. Her box braids had seen better days, the roots grown out and the ends fraying slightly. It was time.

Ekko sat behind her on the couch, his legs on either side of her shoulders, fingers already working through the braids at the nape of her neck. A small comb, a pair of scissors, and a jar of leave-in conditioner sat beside him on the cushion. His hands moved with an ease born of routine, pulling apart the first braid carefully, his fingers deft and patient.

"This one's already got so much lint," he muttered, holding up a braid with a small frown.

Moon tilted her head back to look at him, a teasing smirk tugging at her lips. "Maybe if you'd taken it down a week ago like I asked..."

Ekko rolled his eyes, gently tugging her head forward again so he could keep working. "I was a little busy saving Zaun. You know, small stuff."

Moon snorted. "Small stuff, huh? And yet you still found time to get your hair retwisted."

"I prioritize," he shot back, though there was no heat in his words.

They fell into a familiar rhythm, the sound of the comb sliding through her hair and the occasional snip of scissors filling the room. Moon closed her eyes, her body relaxing under his touch. His hands were steady and sure, moving with a gentleness that never failed to surprise her.

"You're quiet today," Ekko said after a while, his voice soft.

"Just tired," she murmured, her voice muffled by the towel draped around her shoulders.

"Physically or mentally?" he asked, his tone laced with understanding.

"Both," she admitted after a moment, her fingers curling into the edge of the towel. "It's just one of those days."

Ekko nodded, even though she couldn't see him. He understood what she meant without her having to explain. Zaun had a way of weighing on people, its chaos sinking into their bones. And for Moon, who already carried so much, even small burdens could feel insurmountable some days.

"Want me to put on some music?" he offered, his fingers still working through her hair.

Moon shook her head slightly. "No, I like the quiet."

He didn't argue. Instead, he let the silence settle between them, comfortable and unspoken. His fingers found another braid, carefully snipping the knot at the end before unraveling it, the strands of her hair springing free.

As he worked, he thought about how much trust this moment required. It wasn't just about the braids—this was intimate, vulnerable. Moon didn't let just anyone touch her hair, and Ekko didn't take the honor lightly.

"You know," he said after a while, his voice light, "I'm starting to think you only keep me around for this."

Moon laughed softly, the sound low and warm. "Well, you are pretty good at it."

"'Pretty good?'" he repeated, feigning offense. "Girl, I'm an artist."

"An artist?" she teased, tilting her head slightly to glance back at him. "Last time you tried to part my hair, the sections were so uneven I looked like an escaped psych ward patient."

"That was one time!" he defended, laughing despite himself.

"And I had to fix it!" she shot back, grinning now.

"Okay, okay," he relented, his hands still moving methodically. "But at least I don't pull your hair like you do when you braid mine."

Moon huffed, crossing her arms. "That's part of the process, Ekko. Beauty is pain."

"Not when I do it," he said smugly, carefully separating another section of her hair.

"Mm-hmm," she murmured, her smile lingering even as she leaned forward slightly to let him reach a higher section.

The minutes stretched into an hour, the pile of loose braids growing at her feet. Ekko paused occasionally to massage her scalp with his fingertips, working out the tension that had built up from the weight of the braids. Moon sighed each time, her body sinking further into relaxation.

"You're gonna miss these when they're gone," he said, his voice quieter now.

"Maybe," she admitted, her voice just as soft. "But it'll feel good to let my hair breathe."

Ekko nodded, his hands moving to the final braid. "And you know I'll hype you up no matter what style you go for next."

"You're my personal cheerleader," she said with a small smile.

"Always," he replied, the sincerity in his voice making her heart ache in the best way.

When the last braid was undone, Ekko set the scissors down and ran his fingers through her hair, gently fluffing it out. "There," he said, his voice filled with pride. "All done."

Moon turned to face him, her hair wild and free, and for a moment, Ekko just stared. She looked beautiful, the glow in her eyes matching the stars he always swore were there.

"Thanks," she said softly, reaching up to brush a hand against his cheek.

"Anytime, Moonlight," he replied, leaning into her touch. "Anytime."

"𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓?"

Dr. Yarrow quirked an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair with an air of patient curiosity. "That's a new one."

"That's what I'm saying!" Moon huffed, exasperation etched into every syllable. She dragged her hands down her face, as though trying to scrub away the very memory of it. "I've got MoMo, I've got Mouse, I've even got Firelight if Silco's around, but Moonlight? Moonlight?"

Dr. Yarrow tapped her pen against her clipboard, observing the frustration radiating off her patient. "And who, exactly, decided to call you that?"

Moon froze for half a second, her lips twitching with the effort to appear nonchalant. "Ekko," she muttered, almost inaudibly.

Dr. Yarrow's pen paused mid-tap. "Ah. Ekko." Her voice was soft but deliberate, and Moon immediately felt her hackles rise.

"What?" she snapped, crossing her arms like a petulant child.

Dr. Yarrow gave her a measured look, calm and unshaken. "It's just surprising, that's all. I haven't heard his name come up in... what, a year? You said you'd moved on."

"I did move on," Moon said quickly, too quickly. "I am over him. This isn't about feelings or anything. It's just... the nickname."

"The nickname," Dr. Yarrow echoed, her pen resuming its soft rhythm against the clipboard. "What about it?"

"It's—" Moon hesitated, searching for the right words, or perhaps a way to avoid finding them altogether. "It's annoying. Like, who does he think he is? Moonlight? That's so... extra. Like, call me Mouse and keep it pushing, you know?"

"Do you find it annoying because it's extra... or because it's from him?" Dr. Yarrow asked, tilting her head slightly.

Moon's mouth opened, but no words came out. She snapped it shut, crossing her arms tighter. "I don't know," she mumbled, staring at the floor.

Dr. Yarrow waited, her silence both an invitation and a challenge. Moon squirmed under the weight of it, finally breaking with a dramatic sigh.

"Look, it's just... I wasn't expecting it, okay? I've been fine. Totally fine. And then out of nowhere, he drops that on me, and it's like—" She waved her hands vaguely, searching for the right metaphor. "It's like he opened a window I'd already shut and locked, and now there's this breeze coming in, and I don't know what to do with it."

Dr. Yarrow raised an eyebrow. "Interesting choice of metaphor for someone who's 'totally fine.'"

Moon glared at her. "Don't psychoanalyze me."

Dr. Yarrow smiled faintly. "That is, unfortunately, my job."

Moon groaned, flopping back against the couch like a marionette whose strings had been cut. "It's not that deep. I'm just overthinking it."

"Perhaps," Dr. Yarrow said carefully. "But you've spent the last ten minutes avoiding the real reason you came here today."

Moon stiffened. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Dr. Yarrow gave her a pointed look. "Moon, we were supposed to talk about your eating habits."

Moon rolled her eyes, a defensive laugh escaping her lips. "Oh, that. I don't really recall me having any issues with that."

Dr. Yarrow didn't respond, her silence louder than any words.

Moon fidgeted, tapping her fingers against the edge of the couch. "Did I mention he's growing his hair out again? Ekko, I mean. Looks good on him. Not that I care or anything."

"Mm-hmm," Dr. Yarrow said, making a note on her clipboard. "Tell me more about this nickname."

Moon flushed, suddenly feeling like she'd walked straight into a trap. "There's nothing more to tell. It's just a stupid name. That's all."

"And yet, it's the first thing you brought up today," Dr. Yarrow pointed out. "Almost as if it's easier to talk about Ekko than yourself."

Moon bristled, her defenses snapping back into place. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dr. Yarrow leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady but gentle. "It means I think there's something deeper going on here, Moon. Whether it's about Ekko or not, you're deflecting. Again. And while I'm happy to talk about nicknames all day, I think you owe it to yourself to dig a little deeper."

Moon stared at her, a lump forming in her throat. For a moment, she considered pushing back, throwing up more walls. But something in Dr. Yarrow's expression—calm, patient, unyielding—made her hesitate.

"I just... I don't want to go there today," she said quietly, almost a whisper.

Dr. Yarrow nodded, her tone softening. "That's okay. We'll get there when you're ready."

Moon gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, her hands twisting in her lap. She wasn't ready—not yet. But maybe, just maybe, she was starting to realize that the windows Ekko opened weren't so easily closed.

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐒!

Fun fact: Not once in any of their sessions have they ever been able to talk about Moon's eating problem. It's been two years.

I want them together like yesterday ima get ready to wrap this up. Also my engagement on all my books have been so bad it's making me lowkey insecure. I know my chapters haven't been the best but like don't be afraid to interact I don't bite promise.

Moon is 16, Ekko is 18