Page 50 of Tangled Desires

I stare, trying to process as she rattles on, hands gesturing wildly. She’s flushed, pacing, but all I can focus on is how bloodyhershe is—fierce, all fire and sass, nose scrunching in that way she does when she’s frustrated.

She stops, locking eyes with me. “The other night, I slept better than I have in weeks. And the night after that? Even better. I don’t know if it was the back rubs or just… you, but I need that again.” Her voice wavers slightly, but her chin’s up, determined. It hits me—this is her asking for help, trusting me. That trust floors me. I nod, about to say something, when Michael clears his throat, popcorn in hand, clearly loving the drama. She snaps her fingers in front of my face.

“Hello? Are you even listening?”

“Uh, yeah, I did,” I stammer, trying to piece it together. Is she saying what I think she’s saying? That she wants to move in? Michael clears his throat, and Imogen glances at him.

“Oh! Hi. Am I interrupting?”

“Just a movie—”

“No, not at all,” I cut in.

She raises an eyebrow. “So, what do you say, caveman? Wanna play house?”

I grin like an idiot. “Midge, all you had to do was say, ‘I’m moving in,’ and I’d have said ‘fuck yes’ in a heartbeat.” She lets out a breath of relief.

“So, we’re neighbours now?” Michael adds, making her glance back at me.

“Looks that way,” she says, but her eyes narrow. “Don’t get too comfortable. I’m not stuck here. If you piss me off, I’ll pack my shit and leave.”

Michael and I grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her phone rings, and she glances at the screen, her face lighting up. “Oh my God, it’s Claire!” She squeals, rounding the kitchen bench, to chat. I drop back onto the couch beside Michael. He glances at me, then at Imogen, phone in hand, and wiggles his eyebrows.

“This is gonna be interesting,” he says with a smirk, dragging out the last word.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Michael chuckles, but I lean back, letting my head rest against the cushion. My gaze flicks toward the living room, where her laughter filters through, and that calm settles over me again—the kind that doesn’t make sense but feels like it’s meant to. Her being here, with the baby—it fits. Like it was always supposed to be this way. I can’t explain it, but she’s mine.

I know that, deep down, even if she doesn’t see it yet.

16

16 weeks

Love Story - Taylor Swift

NIGHTS LIKE THIS - The Kid Laroi

Istand in front of my wardrobe, flinging dress after dress onto my bed in a fit of exasperation.

“Argghhh!” I huff out in frustration. I’m sixteen weeks along, and my doctor says I have a retroverted uterus, which means I might carry more toward the back. I should be proud of that, right? Yet here I am, drowning in a sea of clothes that refuse to accommodate my changing shape. The sequin dress I love? Itwon’t zip up on the sides, pinching me uncomfortably. My jeans won’t even button up! Not my dresses, not my jeans—nothing! And don’t even get me started on this itchy rash that’s developed on my fingers. Dermatitis, my doctor says, a lovely gift from my hormones doing their dance.

Just perfect. I’m a mess, and this is just the beginning.

My hair is half tied up with my favourite white ribbon, the curls cascading around my shoulders like a bouncy cloud. I have a whole collection of ribbons in vibrant colours, each one a nod to the mornings my dad would tie my hair back when I was little. It’s a bittersweet reminder of how he raised me single-handedly after my mother walked out. I’ve kept my makeup simple but fresh—a touch of tinted moisturiser, a hint of blush, and a swipe of mascara to bring my eyes to life. Tears threaten at the corners of my eyes as I stare at my reflection, biting my lip to keep them at bay.

“No, don’t you dare,” I mutter, leaning in closer to the mirror. “I did not spend thirty minutes on this makeup for it to be ruined by a meltdown.”

I take a deep breath, fingers hovering over my phone to text Isla, but the screen lights up with her name. I swipe to answer, my voice tight. “Isla, you won’t believe this. I have nothing to wear!”

Her voice cuts through the tension, calm and steady. “Breathe, Midge. You’ve got this.”

“No, I don’t have this! I’m about to have a mental breakdown over a karaoke bar! Why did we even agree to go?” I flop back onto my bed, throwing my phone onto the blankets in frustration.

“Because it’ll be fun! Just throw on something cute and own it! You know you look good!” Isla tries to reason.

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