Sun and Moon

Thirty-Four

Luna's POV

"So, what's the dress code for this breakfast?"

I was standing in front of my mirror, picking anxiously at the fourth shirt I had tried on, frowning at my reflection and wondering why I suddenly felt like all the clothes I owned looked like they belonged in the bin. Or maybe it was just me that belonged in the bin. I couldn't decide.

I had the feeling everything I owned was either way too casual or way too dressy. Probably because it was. When I was at work, I usually had to dress up a little more than I'd prefer, even for professional attire, as I never knew when I might be meeting a new client. When I wasn't at work, my style was ultra casual. As in, ripped jeans or cut-off denim shorts and a t-shirt. I liked to keep things simple.

When you're a classic overthinker, styling every morning can be a nightmare. If I didn't have go-to staples I wore weekly, I could easily lose 30-40 minutes trying to figure out an outfit every day. This might not be a big deal to someone who actually had a healthy routine and went to sleep at a reasonable hour. But when you added in my natural night owl tendencies and mixed that with a dash of revenge bedtime procrastination, (because who really ever felt like they had enough relaxation time after work?) then you had a recipe for a constantly sleep-deprived girl who owes her falsely cheery work demeanor entirely to those few extra minutes of sleep she can steal in the mornings before the alarm goes off and lots and lots of caffeine, but mostly to the latter.  It came down to what was more important to me in the morning: having an extra cute outfit where each detail was meticulously chosen, or those extra few minutes of sleep before the alarm went off.  It wasn't even a contest, really.

"Dress code?" Hope's voice came back questioningly. He sounded so confused. "It's breakfast... Wear whatever makes you comfortable."

"Easy for you to say," I grumbled back.

I glanced over at him as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dabbing sunscreen in little dots up his high cheekbones as if it were foundation. I couldn't help but smile, despite myself, because damn, was it endearing to watch.

He was wearing a yellow Celine hoodie, brown shorts, and purple Nikes with some kind of expensive-looking pattern and had topped it all with a bleached denim hat. It had taken him less than 3 minutes to remove the little pile of neatly stacked clothes from his overnight bag and put them on, which made his outfit choice seem effortless. But I was pretty sure he'd taken a lot more time at home to put this together before he'd meticulously folded and packed it up in his suitcase. The way he had removed the little stack of clothes (already pre-sorted into an outfit, of course) from the bag, paired with the fact that they were folded so perfectly it looked like he had a part-time job at the Gap, gave him away. I hadn't known him long, but just from the couple weeks we'd been hanging out, I'd bet 50 bucks he was one of those people who picked out their outfits and packed a week ahead of a trip, whereas I was a still-doing-laundry-the-night-before and toss it in, half-folded and at the last-minute kind of gal.

I watched him finish rubbing the last of his sunscreen in and then forced my eyes back to the mirror, where I examined the shirt I was currently wearing. It was a white, slightly oversized sweater with black horizontal stripes that I usually wore with black or khaki trousers to work. I'd paired it with some relaxed fit ripped jeans and couldn't tell if it looked weird to me just because I was used to wearing it as a work outfit or if it really wasn't working with the jeans.

I knew I was probably overthinking this whole thing, but I couldn't help it. Meeting the other members and drinking with them the other night had gone really well, all things considered, and had definitely brought me out of my shell a bit, but I couldn't quite forget that they were extremely fashionable, rich pop stars who could afford clothes that cost as much as a single month's rent for me. Not to mention, I was still not certain I'd made a very good impression on some of them. Yoongi's dark, penetrating gaze still unnerved me, like he was assessing everything I did and storing it for analysis later. And as for Namjoon, although he'd been nothing but polite to me, his manners much warmer in general than Yoongi's, I couldn't shake the feeling that below the surface, it was a different story. His smile hadn't quite reached his eyes when he'd looked at me. My gut told me my presence among them, at least for him, was unwelcome at best.