Page 29 of Tangled Desires

“You two are bloody useless.” Dropping my phone, with my hands up, I step back, letting Isla take over.

“Hey, he’s the hopeless one,” I say, jerking my chin at Xav. Couple of taps later, Isla hands the phone back with a smile.

“All set. Now you can see everything—from what fruit size the baby is to how Imogen’s feeling, symptoms and all.”

The screen flashes up, and there it is:Good morning, Harrison. Your friend is 7 weeks, 2 days pregnant.

Weird. Seeing it written out like that… it’s a whole other thing. Not just an idea or a conversation. It’s real. Swiping through, there’s a tiny baby icon, little updates, even a section forhow Imogen might feel this week.Overwhelmed. That’s one of the symptoms. Same.

It’s like reading a cheat sheet for a test I didn’t study for.

“This is… weird, right? Feels like I’m…” Words are stuck somewhere between my brain and my mouth.

“Like you’re what?” Isla’s eyebrow goes up.

“In her space. Like, invading or something.”

They both laugh, loud and unapologetic. “Oh, Harrison,” Isla says. “You’re too precious.”

“Yeah, cute as hell,” Xav adds.

It’s not cute. It’s… fuck, maybe itiscute, but it’s also terrifying. I have no clue what I’m doing. But if it keeps me even a little closer to Imogen—closer to her and this little raspberry—it’s worth it.

Every confusing, scary second of it.

Couch, cold beer, Mighty Car Mods on the TV—bliss. Nothing but the hum of engines, the clatter of tools, and the glorious sound of Marty and Moog arguing over which turbo to slap on some clapped-out nugget of a car. Rituals are important. Keeps the chaos in check. Just me, the boys on screen, and the sweet nectar of hops doing its thing. The day’s noise fades. Engines roar. All’s right in the world.

The door swings open. No knock. No warning. Justbang, and there’s Michael, strolling in like it’s his lounge room and not mine. Annoying prick. He doesn’t even look at me, just makes himself at home. Now, don’t get me wrong—he’s my brother, yeah? Love him to bits. But seriously, who does that? I shoot him a side-eye, one that screamspiss off, but he’s oblivious.

The bloke’s been doing this since we were kids—never bothers to knock, couldn’t give a rat’s ass what he’s walking in on. He walked in on me once with a girl on this very couch. Things were heating up, hands everywhere, and he just strolled in—right on the couch, too. The two of us going at it and Michael just barges in. Didn’t bat an eye, didn’t apologise. Just, “Got any socks I can borrow?”Socks. Dickhead.

Didn’t even kill the vibe. I mean, he’s seen worse. We grew up open about… everything. One time, he walked in on me with two girls going to town, and all he did was complain about the music choice. Just grabbed his charger and waltzed out. The bloke’s unbothered to a fault.

I shake my head at the memory. “Dinner’s ready,” he announces now, leaning in the doorway. “Mum cooked,” he adds.

That gets a snort out of me. “Mum cooked? You’re shitting me.”

“Yeah, for once,” he fires back, heavy on the sarcasm. I can hear the grin in his voice, but Mighty Car Mods has my attention, and it’s staying there.

“Be there in a sec,” I mutter, eyes locked on the screen as Marty revs a freshly tuned RB26. Perfection.

Michael doesn’t move. Of course, he doesn’t. The sigh that escapes him is practically a speech. Loud, long, dramatic. Classic Michael.

“Harrison, come on. Joe wants you inside.” I tap the side of my beer can, weighing the next move. Engines rev, a turbo spools, and honestly? It’s a tough sell to move right now. Beer’s cold, and Marty’s halfway through explaining why youalwaysuse a catch can on boosted engines.

“But it’s the new episode,” I say, taking another swig and gesturing to the screen like,obviously,this is more important.

Another loud, exasperated sigh from him.

“Fine,” I mutter, dragging myself up. Michael doesn’t even look impressed. Just stands there, arms crossed, like he’s the one doingmea favour. Annoying prick.

The door creaks as I shove it open, that plasticky smile already in place, because, apparently, walking into this house requires a performance these days. The smell of steak hits me first—sizzling, smoky, proper steakhouse vibes. Joe’s at the stove, wielding a spatula and Mum’s on veggie duty, mashing potatoes. Joe glances over, all casual-like. “Look who finally decided to show up.”

“Yeah, yeah.” My hand’s already ruffling through my hair as I step in, catching a glance at my reflection in the microwave. Too long. Definitely too long. When was the last time I saw Dan? Must’ve been weeks ago. If he doesn’t squeeze me in soon, I’ll be rocking some shaggy surfer look.

Mum turns, a tea towel slung over her shoulder. She’s smiling, bright and animated like this is some kind of family reunion. “Thought we’d make something decent for a change. Hope you’re hungry.”

I flash a grin, even if it’s only half there. “Starving.”

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