Hannah
After the meal, I insisted on helping to clean up despite the director’s protests. With the way Noah had spent the better part of our visit openly mocking me, I felt I had a point to prove—both to him and to myself.
“Really, Luna Hannah, you’ve already done so much!” the director protested. “We couldn’t possibly ask our Luna to clean the kitchen.”
“Nonsense,” I said, already gathering my plate and rolling up my sleeves. “I’d love to help.”
The director, with wide eyes, fell into a series of thank-yous and compliments. As I made my way to the kitchen, Noah caught my elbow and shot me a curious look. “Cleaning, too?” he whispered, low enough so only I could hear. “What kind of an image—”
“It’s the right thing to do,” I retorted, not bothering to keep my voice low a
