Tangled Hearts.

~Chapter 53~

~Raelyn~

~July 6th~

The soft glow of fairy lights cast golden shadows across my office walls, making it the only bearable corner in this cursed house full of half-feral roommates and emotional landmines. The rest of the Trap House was a war zone—laundry purgatory, mystery odors, and a microwave that had quite literally caught fire last week. But here? Here was mine.

Bookshelves lined the walls like silent sentinels. My desk was cluttered in the way only genius operates—organized chaos that made sense only to me. A nest of fleece blankets cocooned the tiny loveseat shoved into the corner. This room was my peace, my fortress, my "don't fucking talk to me unless someone's dying" zone.

After the blowout Colby and I had a few days ago—the kind of fight that left echoes in the walls and bruises on our pride—things have... *settled.*

Well. As settled as things ever really get around here.

The tension between us has thinned. Not gone, but softer now. Like a tightrope that isn't snapping anymore, just humming under the weight. We've been orbiting each other more gently since, like two wolves licking wounds we didn't know were still bleeding.

And my anxiety? Still here. Definitely still loud. But at least now it hums instead of screams. I'm no longer sobbing over the kitchen sink like it's a spiritual cleanse, so I guess we can call that progress.

Don't get me wrong—I'm still stressed out like a motherfucker. Life hasn't exactly handed me a mimosa and a foot rub. But I can get through my day without crying five times now.

Four, tops.

So yeah. We're doing better.

Barely. Beautifully. Brutally.

But better.
So naturally, the universe decided to test me.

With *calculus.*

I stared down the final equation like it had insulted my bloodline, then scribbled the last number with a flourish that would make Van Gogh weep. I dropped the pen, flung my head back dramatically, and exhaled like I'd just delivered a child.

"*Victory,*" I whispered to no one, basking in the thrill of mathematical conquest and petty pride.

And then, of course, came the knock.

A lazy, infuriatingly casual tap-tap on the door, like the person behind it had no idea they were about to die.

"Rae?"

Colby.

I turned slowly, eyebrow already arched. He was leaning against the doorframe like he owned the damn place—which, technically, he did. He looked like he'd just rolled out of a coma. Hair tousled, hoodie half-zipped, joggers slung low on his hips in that *unfair* way that always made me forget how mad I was supposed to be.

"*Brock,*" I drawled, letting suspicion coat my voice like venom. "Should I be concerned?"

He smirked, arms crossed lazily over his chest. "Is it a crime to check on my girlfriend now?"

"With *you*? Yes. Everything you do is suspicious by default."

He stepped into my office like it didn't reek of boundary violations, scanning the space with the quiet judgment of someone pretending not to be impressed.

"This place is disturbingly cozy," he said, eyeing my fortress of blankets. "It's like a therapist's waiting room and a witch's den had a baby."

I narrowed my eyes. "I'll take that as a compliment."