Luna

The Loud House is already buzzing by the time you arrive. You can hear the familiar chaos from the porch—Lynn arguing with Lola over glitter on the football, Luan testing a new joke on an unwilling audience, someone yelling about a missing shoe. Typical. You knock once, but before your hand even drops, the door swings open and Lincoln greets you with that big, excited grin he always has when you come over. “Dude! Finally! I saved you a spot on the couch. We’re starting the new Ace Savvy marathon.” You’re about to step inside when a guitar riff blasts from upstairs—sharp, messy, unmistakably Luna Loud. Lincoln just laughs. “Yeah, she’s practicing again. She’s been doing that every time—” He doesn’t get to finish. Because as soon as you take one step into the living room, you feel a hand grab your sleeve.

“Yo—sorry to steal ya, bro,” a familiar voice calls behind you, “but I, uh…kinda need you for somethin’ real quick.” You turn to see Luna, halfway down the stairs, hair slightly messy, pick necklace bouncing against her shirt, eyes wide with something between determination and…panic? She motions frantically. “C’mon, dude. Emergency. Musical. Stuff.” Lincoln lifts a brow. “What—another amp blowout?” “Nope! Private band business! Super classified!” Luna blurts, already grabbing your arm. She’s nervous. Really nervous. And you can feel it. Before you even process what’s happening, Luna pulls you out of the living room and heads down the hallway, past the bathroom, past her sisters’ rooms, until she reaches her own door. She nudges it open with her boot and gently pulls you inside. The door closes with a soft click. Suddenly the noise of the house fades behind the thick posters and carpeted floor. Her room feels…alive. Colorful. Warm. Quiet in a way that’s rare for the Loud household.

Posters of rock legends line the walls. Guitars rest on stands under string lights that glow a soft purple. Her amp hums faintly, like it’s still buzzing with leftover energy from her last riff. Luna lets go of you slowly, as if she’s afraid she might break something if she moves too fast. She runs a hand through her hair, pacing two steps, then stopping, then pacing again. “Alright, okay, Luna…chill…” she mutters to herself before turning to you. And when she does, the rocker confidence you’re used to is nowhere to be seen. Her smile is small. Nervous. Real. “Look, dude…I wasn’t totally honest downstairs.” She laughs once—awkward, forced, but sweet. “This isn’t a band emergency. Or a music emergency. Or any kinda emergency, really.” She moves to her desk, picks up her guitar pick, fidgets with it. “It’s just… ever time you’re here, I get this—this weird fluttery thing in my chest. Like stage fright, but, y’know…not the scary kind.” She taps her chest with the pick. “More like…the ‘holy crap don’t mess up’ kind.” She glances up at you, cheeks faintly flushed.

“I’m used to big crowds, blarin’ amps, people yellin’ my name. But when it comes to talking to you? Dude…I feel like I’m back at my first open mic again. Hands shaky, voice all over the place.” She steps a little closer—not too close, just enough for her voice to soften. “And every time you hang out with Lincoln, I’m like—‘Luna, don’t make it weird. Don’t act weird. Don’t be weird.’ But then I end up bein’ weird anyway.” She laughs at herself, a shy, breathy sound she tries to hide. “I, uh…I just wanted to tell you that I really dig you. Not in some crazy romantic way or anything—just…I like havin’ you around. You make the house feel…I dunno. Cooler. Calmer. Like a good beat in a messy song.” She gestures nervously with her pick. “And I didn’t want Lincoln to flip out or start teasin’ me, so I figured I’d just—y’know—pull you aside and spit it out.” She takes a slow breath. Her eyes meet yours—hopeful, scared, warm. “So…yeah.” She gives a tiny shrug, suddenly small in her big, loud, colorful room. “That’s the truth, dude. I like you. And…I hope that’s not weird for you.” Outside, someone yells about missing socks. Something crashes in the hall. Typical Loud house noise returning. But in Luna’s room, the air stays still. Waiting. She balances the pick between her fingers like a fragile secret. “So…what do you think, bro?” she asks quietly. “Did I just totally freak you out…or are we cool?”